


sunbeams are never made like me

by notlucy



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, Adulthood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst and Feels, Awkward Boners, Bisexuality, Coming of Age, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Happier than these tags make it sound, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Teenagers, Underage Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 96,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky and Steve first fell for Peggy in the summer of 1993, when a hormone-fueled haze of grunge and garage rock was all they needed to survive.Twelve years later, Peggy's back in Brooklyn, and the trio finds that grown-up problems aren't easily fixed with a kiss.





	1. fever head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellebeesknees (umetnica)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umetnica/gifts).



> Welcome to my contribution to this year's Captain America Reverse Big Bang! 
> 
> Content note: this story contains sixteen-year-olds engaging in sexual experimentation. I didn't use an archive warning as they're all the same age, and the activities aren't especially explicit, but please be advised all the same.

**Did you ever wish me dead?** **  
****Oh lover boy, oh fever head** **  
** _\- PJ Harvey_

 

## 2005

Steve’s legs carried him forward on a sticky bit of summer air that didn’t so much breathe as waft in waves from the concrete, propelling him toward the second story of the brownstone where Bucky would be waiting. Where he would be cooking with the windows open and the stereo on, some low-rent Springsteen wannabe tumbling through life in America as Bucky made something out of nothing. Welcoming Steve home after another day of being harangued and harassed while ringing up the groceries of every trustafarian hipster in Brooklyn with more money in their bank account than sense in their head.

Retrieving his keys took a minute, tucked as they were in the front pocket of the skinny jeans he wore on not-so-skinny legs, sweat-slick and sore as he shifted his bag from his shoulder to slide them out.

The gate squeaked. The flagstones were cracked. The front steps crumbling. The heavy outer door of the building stuck, same as it had been sticking since Steve was six years old and his grandmother had shown him how to manage the funny lock.

Those locks had changed twice in the intervening decades. The door had never stopped sticking.

The smell of garlic carried him up the stairs, two at a time, cheap linoleum squeaking beneath his chucks. Second key out, inserted in the deadbolt lock, only—surprise—nothing had been bolted in the first place, lighting a flare of irritation in Steve’s chest. Love doomed him to eternal annoyance with Bucky’s open invitation to each and every asshole who might have an interest in robbing them blind.

Bucky was exceedingly irresponsible. Steve adored him.

“Hey,” Steve called, the good smells growing stronger, tempering his temper as he tossed his keys into the chipped blue bowl on the hall table which was older than he was.

“Hey back,” came Bucky’s reply.

Steve dropped his bag on a hook and headed for the kitchen, which lay on the alley-side of the apartment, soaking up what scant daylight it could from the shadowed fire-escape as the sun made its early summer drop to the horizon.

“Something smells good,” he said, stepping through the open arch and into the tight galley of his grandmother-then-his-mother-now-Bucky’s kitchen.

“Hmm?”

Steve rolled his eyes, reaching over to turn down what he now suspected was Maroon 5, though he didn’t check, lest he be disappointed once again by Bucky’s taste. “I said it smells good.”

“S’just noodles.” Bucky turned away from the pan, which was full of enough garlic to stink up the house for days to come. He was smiling, though, and he hip-checked Steve with a kiss to his cheek before going to dig a couple bottles of beer out of the fridge.

This was a good day, then. That was a relief, considering the tense morning they’d had.

“Can I help?”

“Nah,” Bucky waved him off, two bottles in one hand as he knocked the door shut with his foot. “Hot out there?”

(A subtle way of saying that Steve looked like he'd been dragged backward through a Louisiana swamp in the middle of a heat wave.)

“Hot in _here_ ," he replied, taking both beers and grabbing the magnetized opener from the fridge. "I'm gonna turn the A.C. on." The seven-year-old unit wedged into the living room window wouldn't offer much relief, but it was better than nothing.

“You come into some money I don’t know about?”

“We can afford to run it a _little_ ,” he protested. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

“Oink oink,” Bucky said, pushing his index finger against the tip of his nose. “Move your ass, I gotta get the salad.”

Steve made a face, though he stepped away from the fridge, popping the caps as Bucky retrieved the greens. “Garlic bread, too?”

Bucky, salad bowl in his hand, grabbed the dressing with the claw attachment he used while cooking before looking Steve up and down. “You bring any bread home?”

“Nope,” Steve said, forgiving Bucky his lack of witty repartee.

"Then, no. There's no garlic bread."

“So funny.”

“I try.”

“What kinda dressing is that?”

“Vinaigrette.” And homemade, by the looks of it.

Steve still made a face. “Don’t we have ranch?”

Bucky set the salad on the tile countertop and rapped his knuckles twice against the porcelain. “Steve. Do you, or do you not, work in a grocery store?”

“That’s fancy shit. I like Wishbone.”

"I'll show you fuckin' Wishbone," Bucky said, which made next to no sense, but then he was crossing the room to crowd Steve against the doorframe, and nothing mattered but kissing him hello, neither of them coming up for air until the timer went off on the stove.

Yeah, so. A good day.

Good pasta, too. Heavy on the garlic and butter, as always. Bucky’s food never less than decadent—rich where he could be, to make up for the lack of protein in their diets. Meat was expensive, so it was saved for the weekends when they had sausage sandwiches on Saturdays, and chicken on Sundays. There was a lot of peanut butter in between, but it never felt lacking. Not when Bucky was in the kitchen with his unparalleled ability to turn even the simplest fare into something special.

Steve ate his salad with a minimum of complaining and had to admit that the dressing was _okay_. Not Wishbone, but better than he’d expected. Bucky had even spiced things up with some feta, which was the we-can’t-pay-our-property-taxes version of goat’s cheese, Steve supposed.

(Which wasn’t to say they never had goat’s cheese. Steve had run across free samples of a new variety at work several months prior, the taste of which had impressed him so much that he’d bought half a pound with his employee discount, blowing their grocery budget for the week. But shit, Bucky had been turning twenty-eight, and Steve had thought he deserved something nice.

Bucky had fumed over the expense before taking two days to decide what to do with the unexpected bounty. The goat’s cheese and tomato tart he’d produced had been transcendent, and Steve had eaten four slices, before declaring himself too full to fuck.)

Once the meal was as done as it was going to get (Steve scraping his plate clean, Bucky eating about half before giving up), Steve rose to clear the table, filling his end of their unspoken domestic bargain. Then, after setting the dishes on the limited counter space next to the sink, he went to the corner cabinet and retrieved three orange bottles, shaking a pill from each and presenting them to Bucky without comment. Bucky took the medication silently, downing the pills with the last swig of his beer before tossing the bottle into the recycling bin, kissing Steve on the temple, and wandering off to the living room, where Steve heard the television blare to life a few minutes later.

No fights about taking his meds?

A _very_ good day.

Steve turned on the radio as he did the dishes, swinging the dial to a station he could tolerate and scrubbing the slick sheen of grease from the plates. Bucky liked to say Steve was a snob when it came to music, and Steve supposed that was true. Though, his own _personal_ opinion was that he had taste, while Bucky had none. That had been true since they were kids though, in the two decades of their friendship-slash-relationship, the bickering had mellowed from a gulf to a teasing back and forth.

Still, cleaning up after Bucky was intolerable without a decent soundtrack to hum along to as he scrubbed every single one of the myriad pots and pans that had been used in the pursuit of perfection. An excellent and inspiring chef? Absolutely. Capable of managing the mess he made? Not so much.

Once the dishes were dry and the sink wiped down, Steve flipped both the light switch and the radio off, then headed into the living room. Bucky was in his usual spot—sprawled lengthwise on the sofa, shirtless, prosthetic unbuckled and tossed onto the coffee table.

"How's your shoulder?" Steve asked, regretting the question the instant it left his lips. Couldn't help it—Bucky had been wriggling all through dinner with tiny twitches of muscles as they shifted beneath his skin, seeking comfort when there wasn't any to be found.

“Fine,” Bucky said, eyes fixed on the screen, where some inane procedural was playing out the same old story.

“You sure?” Steve took a couple steps closer.

Bucky shifted, the stump of his left arm moving up, then down, then side to side. “Right as rain.”

“Didn’t ask about your arm.”

“Didn’t ask you to ask about anything.”

Steve could see the shape of the fight forming. Knew where to hit, if he wanted to. The soft underbelly of Bucky’s tough exterior.

But shit. He was tired.

So instead, he grabbed his ancient laptop, the casing of which was held together through a combination of faith and alchemy, flopping into his grandfather’s recliner, the original fabric beneath the slipcover so frayed that stuffing poked out in bulging patches.

Opening the computer, Steve winced upon hearing its signature _'crack.'_ Sure, the split in the plastic was on the back and had yet to affect any major components, but he was waiting for the day when the machine would spin her last disc and scoot off to that great CPU in the sky. He had no idea what he'd do then because she was a cumbersome old girl, but shit, she was his. Had been since his mother scrimped and saved to buy her for him as a graduation present, and he certainly didn't have the money to replace her.

Deciding tomorrow was better than today to worry about dead laptops and money troubles, Steve opened a browser window. His email account was his first stop. Mostly junk, but also a newsletter from a venue he liked, advertising upcoming shows. Live music was where he spent most of what scant fun money he had—forgoing food and creature comforts for the chance to see bands. Bucky didn’t understand, but then, Bucky never did _anything_ nice for himself these days.

Steve's eyes lit on an upcoming residency for a singer he'd seen at CMJ the previous fall. This was excellent for two reasons: residencies were cheap to attend, plus this particular one was every Wednesday for the next month, and he didn't usually have work on Thursdays. Making a mental note to add it to the calendar on the fridge, so Bucky wouldn't bug him about his plans, Steve next headed to MySpace, where he spent ten minutes clicking through pages of bands he liked, seeing who had posted new music, poking through changes in people's top eight, and so on, and so forth. MySpace was a decent way of discovering new acts, if nothing else, and his rabbit holes often led him to fantastic finds.

Which, as it happened, was how he stumbled upon the thing that nearly made him drop his laptop.

“Holy shit!”

Bucky, used to Steve’s occasional fits of pique, barely looked away from the television. “Hmm?”

“You’re never gonna believe who’s in the Bifrost’s top eight!”

“The what?” Because Bucky wasn’t on MySpace, barely understood what top eights were, and was only slightly familiar with The Bifrost, a famous-ish Norwegian folk-punk band fronted by two brothers who styled themselves as Thor and Loki, which was _kind of_ ridiculous, but the music was good, so Steve forgave the artifice.

"The …they're a band. I played you their stuff."

“Do they sing the uh…” Bucky sat up, pushing his hand through his long, lank hair, which hadn’t seen a shower in a couple of days. “The one you like…oh baby, don’t you feel so fine?”

“That’s the Strokes.”

“Same thing.”

“Oh my God.”

“Snob,” he said, half-smile on his face. “Anyway, what’s the top eight again?”

“MySpace. It’s, you know. The top eight friends? You can change them.”

“Sounds like a popularity contest.”

“It is, but—” Steve could tell that Bucky was tuning out, swiftly losing interest in whatever nonsense he was peddling. So he blurted the information that had been so important in the first place. “It’s _Peggy_.”

That got Bucky’s attention, and his head snapped around, eyes fixing on Steve’s with a hard stare. “Bullshit.”

“No, I swear to God, Buck,” he said, standing with the laptop precariously balanced, lest he jostle the power cord, as any sudden movement could cause instant death. Luck was on his side, however, and he made it to Bucky without incident, angling the screen so they could both see it, then pointing at the fourth profile picture on the Bifrost’s top eight.

“That’s her?” Bucky said, squinting at the shot that, admittedly, was small and artsy.

“You don’t recognize her?”

“I—” Bucky narrowed his eyes further, flapping his hand at the screen in a way that reminded Steve very much of Bucky’s mother, though he’d never say so. “Make her bigger.”

“Yes, master,” he said, ignoring Bucky’s snort as he clicked through to Peggy’s profile.

Steve hadn’t needed to enhance the image to know it was her, but seeing the photo that much larger? God, it was absolutely _Peggy_. Hair a little shorter, face a little older—turned profile to the photographer with a cigarette between her lips, staring into the middle distance as if unaware of the camera. Too cool to care, but then, that had always been what Peggy’d wanted people to think. An artfully crafted artifice—that was her all over.

"Fuck me," Bucky said, leaning closer because he was not the sort of person who needed reading glasses, oh no. "That's her."

“I told you.”

“What’s it—” he frowned. “I can’t read that. What’s it say?”

“It says she’s female.”

“Gee, yeah, thanks. What else?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Awesome, Archimedes, you can do math.”

“Could you be more of a dick?” he said, elbowing Bucky before sucking in a sharp gasp as his eyes read the next line. “Oh, fuck _me_.”

“What?”

“This says she lives in New York.”

Bucky’s reaction was swift, grabbing the computer from Steve with such force that the adapter was yanked from the port, screen going black.

“Motherfucker,” Bucky swore. “New _York_?”

 

* * *

 

## 1993

Attending the party had been Bucky’s idea, though that wasn’t saying much. All the parties they went to were Bucky’s idea. Because Bucky liked parties. Or, actually, Bucky liked the _girls_ who went to the parties, with the long nights out always ending the same way for Steve, with Bucky making out with someone on a sofa, while he languished in a corner, eating stale chips, and wishing he were home with his sketchpad and his guitar.

But, okay, that wasn’t _totally_ fair. Steve might have liked parties too if he'd looked like Bucky. With his head of dark hair that never got tangled. Full lips, a dimpled chin, and a gleaming, white smile. Six feet tall these days, though Steve liked to pretend it only was 5'11" to make himself feel better.  Because Bucky'd had a growth spurt during the fall of their sophomore year, shooting up five inches overnight, so now he towered over Steve.

And Bucky was on the track team.

And Bucky had straight A’s.

And Bucky had a cool job at the video store.

And Bucky had a rotating string of makeout partners.

And Steve? Steve did not.

Bucky liked Steve anyway, and for that Steve was eternally grateful. He wouldn’t have stood a chance of becoming friends with someone like Bucky had they met as teenagers, but because they’d met when they were five, on a playground equidistant from their apartments, they could still be friends. Back then, Steve had been a skinny little twerp, missing two front teeth, full of anger and asthma and allergies. Bucky, meanwhile, had been a chubby, freckle-faced basket case who was scared of his own shadow and liable to cry over a squished spider.

They’d fit together, back then, because they hadn’t fit anywhere else.

Nowadays, Steve was still a skinny little twerp, prone to breakouts along with the still-present anger and asthma and allergies. But Bucky? Bucky was a god.

Steve loved him, sure, but being best friends with the 'after' picture in a Noxema ad, while you were the before? That would wear on a guy.

So yeah. The party.

It was being thrown by a friend of a friend of a friend who lived in Greenwood, whose parents were out of town for Memorial Day weekend. All those layers of friends were _Bucky’s_ people, not Steve’s, but he supposed that point was moot—it wasn’t like going to parties with people he knew made them any better.

"Whose place is this again?" Steve asked, tugging his cardigan closed and wiping a hand across his face because some late spring pollen had his eyes watering and his nose running. (His mother had given him shit about the cardigan on his way out the door, but like, whatever? It was comfortable, even if it was too hot, with its mismatched buttons and dragging sleeves and fuzzy nap.)

“Some kid Clint knows,” Bucky said, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, which fell to the ground near his feet, not daring to sully the perfection of his ensemble—blue flannel to match his eyes, and just-slouched-enough jeans. Steve would just bet he spent about thirty minutes artfully perfecting the look before leaving his apartment. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

They continued on in silence, Steve taking two steps for every one of Bucky’s, which, ugh. How could Bucky smoke as much as he did and _still_ run an eight-minute mile?

Eventually, they arrived at a four-story brick building with a few lights shining. Bucky crushed his cigarette on the stoop before trying the buzzer, which proved fruitless, so he tried the door instead. Success—someone had duct-taped the catch, which was definitely safe and not at all going to prove a shitshow should the neighbors find out.

As they entered, Steve could hear the faint strains of a song he recognized as Yo La Tengo, so like, at least _someone_ at this party had taste. (The last event Bucky had dragged him to had involved enduring hours of shitty hair metal while watching other people suck face.)

The music carried them up a flight of stairs and down a hall, where they found an open door and a half-dozen teenagers spilling into the hallway. Or, well, not _teenagers,_ exactly? Maybe a third were their age, while the rest had to be in their twenties. One of them, Steve was pretty sure, had a mortgage and a second wife. The hallway already smelled like booze and sweat and piss and vomit and blerch, Steve shouldn’t have eaten a second helping of his mother’s stroganoff.

Things were worse inside, where a motley crew of assorted people had crowded into the tiny, dank apartment that had the distinct essence of neglect. Someone’s parents were either out of town for the weekend, or dead. Hard to say. There were a couple familiar faces, though. He spotted Bucky’s friend Clint straight off, recognizable even as he hung upside down over a keg with a funnel in his mouth.

"There's Clint," he said, nudging Bucky's side like maybe they ought to go say hi.

“I’m not drinking beer,” Bucky replied, steering Steve toward a card table full of cheap liquor, where he set to work, upending a series of bottles into two plastic cups. The resulting concoction was equal parts vodka, whiskey, and a violently green syrup labeled margarita mix.

“Don’t margaritas have tequila in them?” Steve asked, taking his cup when Bucky passed it over.

“I dunno, dude,” Bucky said. Steve was about to make a joke when he realized Bucky’s attention had already wandered. Because there were girls in the room. Pretty girls, too. The sorts of girls Bucky would sidle up to, smile his big smile for, tall his…tallness at for a while, then take to some sofa or (if he was lucky) a vacant bedroom. And while Steve knew that Bucky was still _technically_ a virgin, he also knew that Bucky had rounded a fair few bases on his way to scoring that first run.

Steve, meanwhile? He was sitting in the dugout. More of a mascot than an M.V.P. Or, uh, a ball boy? That was something he'd been thinking about lately. A lot. Which wasn't to say he _didn’t_ like girls. Shit, he liked girls a _lot_. To the point of nearly failing an exam the previous semester because he’d gotten so distracted by the satin bra strap peeking out of Stacey Anderton’s sleeveless blouse that he hadn’t finished his essay question.

But also? Sometimes? Steve thought maybe he liked Bucky, too.

“Who’s that?” Bucky asked, nudging Steve’s shoulder, nearly making him spill his drink.

“Who’s what?” Steve replied, annoyed, as Bucky was pointing to a group of nearly ten people clustered together.

“That girl with Sharon.”

Steve craned his neck; at barely five foot five, he couldn’t see above everyone else in the room like Bucky. The crowd parted a bit, though, and he spotted Sharon Carter first, blonde hair shining as she sipped her drink.

Standing beside her was the prettiest girl Steve had ever seen in person, which wasn't even an exaggeration. First of all, she was brunette—objectively the hottest hair color—with cherry red lipstick, wearing a leopard print miniskirt and an oversized black blazer. Plus, those tights girls wore called, like, fish holes? _Jesus_ , she had Doc Martens, too, the sight of which turned Steve on while making him unaccountably jealous.

This girl was gorgeous. Otherworldly hot.

And Bucky had seen her first. So Steve was out of fucking luck.

Scowling, he sipped his drink and gave a shrug of calculated nonchalance. “How should I know?”

“Geez, okay, I was just asking,” Bucky said before cutting a path through the crowd like a shark narrowing in on its prey. Which honestly made him sound worse than he was—Bucky was a good dude overall. Steve wouldn’t have been friends with him otherwise. Yeah, he liked girls, but he wasn’t gross about it like some guys. In fact, Bucky actually _liked_ girls—like, he wanted to be friends with them, even if they weren’t making out with him, which was more than most guys in their grade. (Definitely more than Steve, who couldn’t even _talk_ to girls without blushing.)

Following in Bucky’s wake, Steve found even more reasons to fall in love with Hot Girl. Granted, the first two were uh. Anatomically related. Just…something to notice, was all. Because Steve’s mom was a feminist and stuff, and she’d done a bunch of marches in the seventies, which meant that Steve wasn’t about to _objectify_ Hot Girl—he knew better. But even with the blazer on, he could tell that her boobs were, you know. On the larger side.

That was just an ordinary, non-threatening observation, though. No big deal.

But the _second_ thing he noticed? The thing that sent Steve’s heart shooting into his throat, heat flaring in his cheeks that would put the motherfucking surface of the sun to shame?

That _second_ thing was that Hot Girl didn’t even _acknowledge_ Bucky when he walked up. In fact, she looked _past_ him, her big, brown eyes coming to rest on Steve instead. It wasn’t like she smiled at him or anything, but she tossed her head like she knew he existed, which was more than Fuck-Me-Buck had gotten.

Undeterred, or more likely oblivious, Bucky pressed on, zeroing in on Sharon. "Hey," he said, sticking both hands in his front pockets, leaning forward, so he was kind of in her space, but not totally in her space. Sharon and Bucky had been boyfriend-girlfriend for like, ten seconds in the eighth grade, so sometimes they still made out with each other when there was nobody else around.

"Hey, Bucky," Sharon said, smiling at him and Steve in turn. Steve appreciated the gesture because Sharon was popular like Bucky, but she wasn't an asshole the way some of his friends could be. "Hey, Steve."

“Hi,” Steve managed, hardly able to move his lips.

Hot Girl was still looking at him. His stomach hurt.

“Who’s your friend?” Bucky—never subtle—pressed.

“Oh, this is my cousin, Peggy.”

Peggy. Peggy Sue. Peggy Lee. An old-fashioned name; Steve hadn’t met anyone his age named Peggy before. He loved it.

“Peggy,” Bucky said, drawing out the second syllable. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Peggy said, not even looking at him. “Steve, was it?”

Oh Christ, oh fuck, oh Jesus, she was _British_? PJ Harvey in a leopard skirt come to fulfill all the filthy promises Steve had made to her while jerking it to _Rid Of Me._ Imagining her standing over him with her leather boots on, coming up man-sized. “Uh…” he managed.

“No, I’m Bucky,” said Bucky. “He’s Steve.”

“I gathered,” Peggy said, finally deigning to give Bucky an appraising glance. Bucky rewarded her for her attention with his most charming smile.

That was it, Steve figured. Game over. Nobody could survive Bucky when he amped up the suave.

Peggy, however, blinked once before turning back to Steve. “Do you like Nirvana?”

Maybe she could read his mind? Like was she _actually_ his dream come true? Steve’s cheeks were burning, tongue turning to lead in his mouth as he hid behind the curtain of hair he’d been growing out for the past eighteen months. “I guess,” he said.

“Me, too. Got a light?”

By some miracle, he did. Or, well, less a miracle and more Bucky’s incessant smoking meant that he carried a spare lighter on him at all times, lest he need to perform that minor act of service. “Uh-huh,” he said, fumbling in his pocket to producing the pink, plastic Bic.

“Brilliant,” she said, glancing at Sharon. “Steve and I are going outside.”

They were? The reality of what she'd just proposed failed to register, while Steve's feet failed to move. His entire world had narrowed to the phrase _'Steve and I,'_ brain turning it round and round, pulling it apart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Peggy took a few steps away, then turned to stare at him, bemused. "Aren't you coming?"

_Steve and I, Steve and I, I and Steve, Steve and I._

He was Steve.

Steve was he.

Which: fuck. “Uh, totally, cool.”

A half-smile crossed Peggy's perfect pout. This time, Steve followed when she walked, not bothering to look back at Bucky since he knew what he'd find: surliness at being denied what he wanted, plus abject confusion at Steve's success. Maybe he'd even be jealous, which would be the strangest thing of all, because in the fifteen years he'd been on the planet, Steve was pretty sure not one god damn person had ever been _jealous_ of him.

Whatever. Bucky could suck face with Sharon. He’d get over it.

Peggy led him to a window, outside of which was a mercifully empty fire escape. Somehow elegant even as she clambered out, she waited for him in the dark, cigarette held between her lips as he made his way into the evening, all arms and legs and sweat and joyful terror.

“Here,” he said, holding out the lighter once he was standing at her side.

She took it from him, the glow of the flame illuminating her pale cheeks as she lit the cigarette. “Ta,” she said, handing it back.

“Sure, yeah.” Damn, now they’d come to it: the end of Steve’s usefulness. She’d only needed him for the light, so he took a step back, folding his arms across his chest and waiting for her to give him his marching orders.

Peggy blew out a cloud of smoke. “You go to school with Sharon?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes fixed on the glowing ember held between the tips of her brightly painted fingernails, lit by the light spilling from the apartment.

“Christ, I’m being rude,” she said. “D’you want one?”

“Oh, uh. No. I don’t smoke.”

Peggy didn’t respond, and so, worried he’d offended her, Steve kept talking.

“I’m not some D.A.R.E. idiot, or whatever. It’s cool. And I totally would. But like, I’ve got asthma? And so, um, whenever I try, I freak out. But you know, whatever. It’s gross. The asthma, I mean! Not the smoking. The smoking’s awesome. I just don’t do it. But I don’t, like, mind when other people do?”

“Sorry about your asthma,” Peggy said, blowing a perfect grey ring from between her rounded, red lips.

Steve’s dick jumped in his jeans, and he silently pleaded for mercy from life’s inconvenient libido. “It’s cool. My ma’s a nurse.”

“Ma,” Peggy echoed, drawing out the vowel sound in a poor imitation of Steve’s pronunciation. “God, that’s so American.”

“I mean,” he shrugged. “You’re in America.”

Peggy smiled, flicking ash off the side of the railing.

“So um,” Steve continued, feeling the need to fill the gap. “How long are you visiting for?”

“Undecided.”

"Undecided? Wow. That's like…so, are you gonna go to school with us?"

“Undecided,” she repeated, the word spat out like a mouthful of something rotten.

Steve wasn't sure what he'd stepped in, but he'd stepped in it, all the same, so he scrambled for a change of topic. "I uh. We don't take vacations."

“Beg pardon?”

“Me and ma. Vacations are expensive, so…” he trailed off, the rest of the sentence caught in his throat because Peggy had chosen that moment to take off her blazer, leaving her clad in a tight black t-shirt that left no curve to the imagination.

Steve was incredibly grateful for his baggy jeans.

"So?" Peggy prompted, tossing the blazer over one arm before taking another drag, lipstick leaving kiss prints on the pristine white wrapper. Steve had never wanted to be an inanimate object more than at that moment.

“So, we don’t?” he finished lamely.

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Um…” Struck by inspiration, he pointed to her shoes. “Are those, like, real Docs?”

“Mmmmm,” she said, seemingly pleased he’d noticed. “Do you like them?”

'Like' wasn't the right word. Coveted, perhaps. Would have sold a certain portion of his soul for? Sure. Wanted her to step on him with them? Maybe, but also: no, brain. No. "Uh-huh."

“So do I.”

They had that in common, at least, so Steve smiled, seeking another topic just as a fellow partygoer stuck his head out the window, looking between them.

“You’re not Neil,” he said, stoned out of his gourd.

“We’re not, no,” Peggy agreed.

“So uh, like, where is he?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, mate.”

“Mate,” the guy said with a giggle, disappearing the way he’d come.

“Lovely,” Peggy said, a half-smile on her face, giving Steve a conspiratorial wink. “Let me guess—you can’t smoke that, either?”

“Uh. I mean. I do edibles, and shit.” Which was to say, he and Bucky had once attempted a batch of pot brownies with some truly skanky weed. They’d set the oven too high, burning the entire batch. Then, after a game attempt to eat the results, Steve had puked what he managed to choke down onto Bucky’s mother’s favorite rug.

So, obviously, a total stoner.

“Never touch the stuff, myself,” she said.

Steve instantly regretted his exaggeration of the pitiful truth, backtracking as quickly as he could. “Oh, I’m just, like…I mostly only use it when I’m writing? It’s good for, you know. My creativity.”

“You write?” Peggy asked, interest once again piqued.

“Uh-huh. It's like, I’m a musician? So I write a lot of songs.”

As statements of fact went, that one was also ninety-five percent bullshit, unless 'musician' could be defined as an _attempt_ to produce music, rather than success. In which case, yeah, Steve was a musician, strumming his late father’s guitar, armed with a dogged determination to master an instrument for which he had no particular gift, along with a voice that could hardly warble an on-key note.

Still, the desire was there, even if the talent was lacking.

Peggy looked impressed. “Really?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Good for you,” she said as if she meant it, and not in the sarcastic way Steve had been hearing people say that phrase for most of his life.

“Thanks. It uh…I mean. I’m not very good—”

“I bet you’re better than you think,” she said. “What do you play?”

“Oh, um. My dad’s old guitar. And my mom has a keyboard. Bucky has a drum kit, too, so sometimes we fuck around—” They had when they were kids, anyway, though Bucky’s interest in music had waned around the same time his interest in the opposite sex had spiked.

“So you’re in a band,” she grinned.

“Something like that,” he agreed. Shit, she really looked interested now. This pretty, sharp, mysterious girl from England, with the blood red lips and the cool chick vibes.

“Maybe you can play me something sometime.”

Steve demurred, shrugging his shoulders. “Uh, yeah, maybe.”

“What’s your favorite—” Peggy said, as yet another head poked out. Sharon, this time, sporting a frown.

“Peggy, you said ten minutes fifteen minutes ago.”

“We’re nearly finished.” Peggy held up the stubby end of her cigarette.

"What's uh …you're leaving?" Steve stammered, because now, faced with _two_ Carters, he had once again lost his voice.

“Sharon’s got a swim meet in the morning,” Peggy said.

“Yeah, and we’ve been here like two hours!” Sharon protested, which only served to make Steve wish he and Bucky had arrived two hours earlier.

“I _could_ find my own way back," Peggy countered; Steve's heart leaped. _Yes! Find your own way back! I’ll walk you! Stay with me a while!_

"Yeah, you know my mom'll flip out. C' mon. I'll buy you pizza."

Peggy blew out a breath. “Yes, alright. Give me a moment.”

Satisfied, Sharon retreated, while Peggy crushed the remains of her cigarette against the brick of the building. Steve didn’t know what to do—what was he _supposed_ to do? Ask for her number? Shake her hand? Hug her? Kiss her? _Could_ he kiss her? He'd never kissed anyone before, but it seemed like that was the sort of cool, exciting move Bucky might make.

But he wasn’t Bucky, so he waited until she’d put her blazer back on before blurting, “how’d you know I liked Nirvana?”

Peggy paused, then took a step closer. “Because when I saw you, I thought you were Kurt.” At that, she leaned down to press a kiss against his upturned cheek, smelling of smoke twined with orange and vanilla—some glorious girl perfume that didn’t bother his allergies because oh, fuck, she’d said he looked like Kurt. That she’d thought he might have _been_ Kurt.

Steve was going to be riding the high of her compliment and her kiss for a day. A week. A month. The rest of his life, maybe.

He’d hardly recovered enough to squeak out a “bye!” before she was gone, slipping through the window and into his daydreams.

Steve touched the spot she’d kissed.

He was never washing his face again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! The story will post in 13 parts + an epilogue, wrapping up on June 13th. 
> 
> Big thanks to [ellebeesknees](https://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com) for her partnership and collaboration - I can't wait to share the art she's made for this story! Thanks also to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) and [parrannah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrannnah) for their beta work. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


	2. mary christ

**Along comes Mary Christ** **  
****Skating light on ice** **  
** _-Sonic Youth_

 

## 2005

Sometimes Steve was glad he had other places to be besides home.

It wasn't a kind thought, or a fair one, but on the days when Bucky was a miserable fuck, Steve was grateful for any reprieve from the bitten-off remarks and sour moods. Sure, life had handed Bucky a pile of shit and told him to shovel, but Jesus, everyone had a limit. Steve had reached his that day when, upon being cut by his manager several hours early and heading home, he'd discovered that Bucky hadn't _actually_ gone to therapy, choosing instead to stare dead-eyed at the television all afternoon.

Which made Steve wonder when the last time was Bucky had actually gone to therapy. Was this an isolated incident, or were they about to hit another wall?

Steve hated keeping after him. Hated asking the questions. Hated being the grown-up. Did it anyway. Started the fights because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Bucky to his demons.

“Because I don’t feel good,” Bucky had said to Steve’s terse query.

“You’re not gonna feel any better sitting there.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?” Steve frowned. “You _won’t_.”

“I don’t _feel_ good,” he reiterated. “I’m sick.”

"So, you're not coming with me tonight, then, I guess?" Steve didn't know why he bothered asking—Bucky rarely if ever, went to shows with him—but he'd been entertaining vague fantasies of getting home early, eating dinner with his boyfriend, and heading into the city for the start of Kamala Khan's residency.

Some exotic fucking dream.

“To what?” Bucky muttered.

“The show I told you about.”

“Ugh. No.”

The scathing dismissal had been the spark that started the fire that became a conflagration, the two of them yelling at one other over the equivalent of a sputtering candle, all the while ignoring the cow kicking over a lantern.

The argument ended with Steve slamming out the front door, hollering something about Bucky _not_ waiting up, and Bucky yelling back that he _wouldn’t_. Neither of them eloquent, both of them angry, with Steve regretful the moment he hit the street.

He wasn’t going back, though. Bucky would be over it by the next morning, buoyed by a night’s sleep. Steve was going to do his best to enjoy the show in the meantime.

Small mercies arrived in the form of an F-train within two minutes of getting to the station, ferrying him from Bucky into Manhattan, where he got off at Delancey. A warm, summer breeze hit him at street level, bringing with it the smell of rain to come, along with the warmth of baking dough from the pizzeria on the corner. The venue wasn’t far from the station, and as he’d left home in an angry huff more than an hour earlier than he otherwise would have, he was one of the first people to arrive, slipping in and finding a table near the front. To sit. And drink. And fume.

By the time Kamala started, Steve was on his fourth beer, and decidedly buzzed. But, hey, he was feeling a little better about things, too; people watching combined with alcohol had that effect on him.

Kamala looked pleased with the size of the crowd, approaching the microphone, guitar around her neck and a smile on her face. “Hey,” she said, the word accompanied by a screech of feedback. “Oh man, really? This doesn’t bode well for me.”

That got the audience on her side, a low chuckle running through the room. The guy staffing the soundboard called out an apology, and she tossed back "it's cool" while he righted his wrongs. Once the levels were set, she began to play, and Steve forgot about being angry. Made sense—music had always been a pressure relief valve for him. A childhood scored by the songs of his parents; Mona Bone Jakon piped through the speakers his father had built from scratch as his mother spun him around the living room of their tiny apartment. Shaping his tastes toward the eclectic.

Things had changed with the death of his father, though, and the music had stopped for a time. Sarah had moved them in with her parents—into the same apartment she’d grown up in, which they’d purchased as a co-op in the sixties, and now owned outright.

Steve’s grandfather had died when he was eleven, his grandmother at twelve. After that, he and Sarah had transformed the apartment into their own space, while music returned to Steve’s life in the form of Nirvana and other early nineties grunge, the anger of those artists speaking to him on a level he hadn’t thought possible. Appealing to his teenage sensibilities the same way it appealed to thousands of other kids during the same era. He’d grown his hair long and started strumming his father’s old guitar, fancying himself a musician. Not so much, in the end—his talents were more as a visual artist—but that creativity had fueled him in his pursuit of an arts degree, albeit one he wasn’t using much these days.

His tastes had changed somewhat since the days of his teenage rage, expanding into something which allowed for all genres, if the songs were compelling. And shows like this? They were his favorite thing—a way of discovering new artists before anyone else, then supporting them however he could. Steve lived to assist, suffering through overtime at his shitty job so he could buy tickets, then volunteering his spare time to make posters and design album covers for the great unsigned masses.

Kamala's set continued for about an hour, her voice clear as a bell and carrying her through while she sipped water and cracked jokes, a natural in front of a crowd. She closed things out with the song that had made Steve fall for her music in the first place, an anti-folk ditty about growing up in Jersey City called 'Second String Hero.' It would be a hit if she ever got a record deal. Which, of course, she deserved; Steve was bound and determined to help her get there, even if that only meant designing some posters.

Once Kamala had cleared the stage and headed to the merchandise table near the door, Steve waited for the crowd to filter out before making his move. He pulled a worn business card from the small stack he kept in his wallet, holding it carefully so as not to smudge the ink. The cards had been ordered from a semi-suspect website and printed on the cheapest paper ever pressed, but they were enough to get the job done. If nothing else, they showed he was serious when he handed one over.

That was the plan with Kamala: approach, introduce, offer. That plan was put on hold, however, as Steve got to his feet, stopped short by the sight of Peggy Carter standing between him and the table.

Peggy wasn’t looking at him—nobody was looking at him—but it was _her_. Cool as ever, with the same bright red lipstick she’d sported at sixteen, matching the mental picture Steve had been holding of her in the intervening years. Gone were the Doc Martens, replaced with a pair of baby blue Chucks, topped with tight jeans and a fitted black blazer.

She was with a man. Some skinny dick in a suit, sunglasses tucked into his collar. Which, maybe skinny dick wasn't a fair assumption—Steve didn't know him, after all. Still, he had that look: slick and greasy, some hipster wannabe with a perpetual smirk.

Boyfriend? Probably boyfriend.

Fucking _fuck_. Peggy Carter.

Maybe Steve shouldn’t have been surprised. They’d always had similar taste in music—he _had_ found her on the Bifrost’s page, after all. Steve and Bucky had debated whether or not to send her a MySpace message for a couple days after making the discovery, but being as Peggy had never returned any of the letters they’d sent her when they were kids, they’d decided against it, figuring the contact might be unwelcome.

Might _still_ be unwelcome. Yet there he was, feet shuffling forward of their own accord so he could stand awkwardly on the periphery of her conversation.

Skinny Dick noticed him first, raising an eyebrow with the air of someone Very Important being bothered by a lesser mortal. “Uh, yes?”

Steve ignored him and looked to Peggy instead. Watched as her face underwent the magical transformation that happened when one was confronted by one's past in the form of an ex. Steve was glad he was taller now. Stronger. Same face, but wearing it differently these days.

“Oh, fuck _me_ ," she said, eyes wide as she stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck in a way that was both wonderful and terrifying because she still smelled of orange and vanilla, the scent carried through the years to sock him in the nose, here and now.

“Hey, Peggy,” he said, arms somehow squeezing back.

She pulled away with a grin and a punch to his shoulder, which hurt more than he liked to admit. “I might have known _you’d_ be into Kamala Khan.”

“Yeah, well—”

"Paul," she said to Skinny Dick. "This is Steve, my ah…" She trailed off, then laughed. "We were friends when I was a kid."

Friend was one way of putting it. Steve shook Paul's hand when he offered, both of them gripping tighter than was strictly necessary—a pissing contest of palms. "Nice to meet you," he said.

“Yeah, likewise, though I was just about to head out. See you tomorrow, Carter?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. A curious mixture of relief and glee washed over Steve because Paul was leaving, but Peggy didn’t seem to care. “I’ll be in by nine.”

Paul gave her a half-salute and turned to go. Peggy, meanwhile, only had eyes for Steve, grin still present as she leaned closer to be heard over the din of the remaining crowd. “Fucking _hi_ ,” she marveled.

"Yeah, I uh…" Steve stammered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. For all that he'd gotten better at talking to women over the years, Peggy was still the first, last, and only girl he'd ever kissed, and it seemed she could still leave him tongue-tied. "I didn't believe it was you, for a second."

“It’s me,” she said, one shoulder rising in a shrug. “I ah, live in Manhattan now.”

He wasn’t about to open with the fact that he already knew. “Wow! When’d that happen?”

“Ah, nearly three months ago,” she said. “I moved here for work.”

“What do you do?”

“Err…” she glanced over her shoulder to where Kamala was still selling CDs, though the line was dwindling. “I work in A&R, actually. For Rebirth Records?”

Jesus. No wonder she knew the Bifrost. Rebirth was one of the bigger labels around, started in the seventies to amplify lesser-heard voices, while also giving the artists more of a say in the production of their records. Their scouts were legendary for spotting and developing talent, which explained Peggy’s presence at Kamala’s show. “Holy shit. That’s uh…congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I was in the London office for years, and I just transferred—” Another look over her shoulder before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been trying to get Kamala in for a meeting for ages now, but I had to get Paul’s sign-off to make an official offer.”

“He’s your boss?”

“Sort of. I’m the director of…ah, shit, she’s free. Hang on a tick.”

Quick as a flash, Peggy crossed the space that separated her from Kamala, stopping in front of the table with a genuinely enthusiastic smile and an extended hand. Steve took a few steps closer, eavesdropping as Peggy first complimented the set, then explained who she was and why she was there, before offering her card as well as the opportunity for Kamala to come to Rebirth and talk through some options. Kamala played it cool, though Steve noticed the way her foot was tapping against the floor as she took Peggy’s card and offered her a CD.

“Already got it,” Peggy said. “I’ve been obsessed with you for months now.”

“Really?” Kamala said, a pleased smile lighting up her face.

“Hand to God. Do give me a call—it’s only a meeting, no pressure. But I’d love to chat.”

“Sure,” she said, pocketing the card. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” she said. “I’ll get out of your way, don’t want to stand between you and commerce or—oh, Steve!”

Having noticed him, Peggy stepped to the side, leaving Steve feeling ridiculous and caught out for listening. “Hi,” he said to Kamala, palming his card, the edges of the cheap paper wilting in the heat. “Uh, that was a great set.”

“Thank you.”

“I um, if you need—I mean, Peggy’s right. Your album’s great, and I do some graphic design? Posters and stuff. So like, if you needed help on a flyer, or whatever—”

“Do you work for Rebirth, too?” Kamala asked.

“What? Oh, uh. No.” He held out his card. “Strictly freelance.”

“But a talented freelancer,” Peggy said, as Kamala took the card. Steve looked over, and she winked. “Haven’t seen his work in a few years, but if my memory serves, he’s got quite the eye.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Both of you. And ah, Steve, was it?”

“Yup.”

“I have a live EP I’m working on—I recorded it a month ago, and I don’t have cover art. But like, I’d pay you? It’s not much—”

“Sure, definitely. Just email me?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Thanks,” he smiled, shaking her hand. “Um, and, you know. I said it already but uh, great set.”

“Thank you,” she said once more, then turned to the next person in line while Steve stepped to the side without about twelve percent as much poise as Peggy.

“So,” Peggy said, once they’d moved away. “Can I buy you a drink? Catch up?”

“What? Oh…” Steve hesitated.

Peggy’s cheerful facade faltered, though she didn’t lose her smile. “Only if you’re able.”

“No, ah…that’d be great.” Bucky was probably already asleep.

“Brilliant,” she grinned. “I know a place.”

 

## 1993

Steve’s life had been divided into two distinct epochs: pre-cheek kiss, and post-cheek kiss. In the pre-kiss era, life had been dull and small, full of endless disappointments because he was little and immature and stuck in Bucky’s shadow. Post-kiss? Steve hadn’t been able to keep the smile off his face, fantasizing endlessly about Peggy, with her perfume and her cigarettes and her smile.

His only regret was that he hadn’t kissed her back. He found himself obsessing over how it might have happened. If he’d turned his head. Caught her before she pulled away. He could have _done_ it, so then he wouldn’t have to wonder about what-ifs and why-nots.

Sharon existed, though. He couldn’t forget that. And Sharon was Peggy’s cousin. Which meant that the school directory tucked behind the takeout menus in the kitchen drawer below the microwave had the necessary contact information. So, like, reaching out to Peggy was a _possibility_ , even if Steve was scared shitless to put that theory into practice, preferring instead to imagine all sorts of ways he might start the phone call, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

On the Wednesday after the party, Steve took himself to the Met for his semi-regular ritual. It had started when he was a kid, his parents taking him to a museum at least once a month. At first, they'd gone to all the big ones, subject matter notwithstanding, but as Steve's interest in art took root, they'd begun focusing on letting him scratch that itch. Now, he was old enough to take himself, so for the past two years, he'd been packing up his sketchbook and paying what he could before hiding himself away in the Met or the Brooklyn Museum for hours. The trips weren't a secret, exactly, but he never invited Bucky, because there was something sacred and private about those long moments spent standing in front of art that somehow seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. With school out, he could go when it was less crowded, finding the quiet corners where nobody else bothered to look, sitting and drawing to pass the time. He had no idea if he was talented, but he knew that he liked it; knew that the world fell away when he touched his pencil to the page.

There happened, on that particular Wednesday, to be an exhibit of nudes from the Scofield Thayer collection. Steve made his way there, interest in the art strictly academic. So he told himself, anyway, but also, he was fifteen, so while he could appreciate the fine detail of the work, there was also this one Schiele piece. Which, like, the woman in it was _Peggy._ Or, at least, it was easy to project Peggy onto the figure. Curves and lines, the subject angled away from the artist, looking to the side, a sheet falling away from her as if she was climbing out of his bed. Which left Steve imagining what Peggy might look like if she was climbing out of _his_ bed. If her breasts would seem so inviting. If she’d let him touch them. Kiss them.

The very notion set his heart racing, and he swallowed hard, turning away from the Schiele and taking two deep breaths to calm down. There was no way he was getting a hard-on in the middle of the Met—he got enough judgy stares from rich fuckers over his moth-eaten cardigans and holey jeans, as if their rich, snobby selves had ever produced anything beautiful.

Crap. He had a boner in the middle of the Met.

Steve left the not-Peggy nude and scurried away, hiding in a hallway near a little-used bathroom.

He had to stop thinking about her.

Had to stop obsessing.

Because he _always_ did this. It had been the same when he’d first started having weird thoughts about Bucky. Not even _sexy_ , really. Just, like, sex-related. Fixating on parts of Bucky's body to the point where he thought he might die if he couldn't see them up close. Although, with Bucky, things were easier. With Bucky, he sometimes got answers to those great, unknown questions. Because he and Bucky changed in the same locker rooms, pissed side-by-side at urinals, and spent the night together so often they might as well have been roommates. So yeah, Steve knew things about Bucky. Like how Bucky had hair on his chest now. And Bucky had, like, this muscle in his calf that sometimes twitched, making Steve want to get down on his knees and bite it. And how Bucky's dick was bigger than Steve's, even soft.

Not that Steve had seen it hard. Except for one time when Bucky had been sleeping, covers thrown back, and the tip of his morning wood had been poking through the flap in his boxers. Steve had looked and looked and _looked,_ then, like he’d found some oasis in a desert, thinking all sorts of awful things. Like how he wanted to get down on his knees and put his mouth on Bucky prick just to _see,_ mind gone wild with possibility. But then Bucky had stirred, so Steve had rolled over, breathing heavily and squeezing his eyes shut.

Bucky, oblivious, had burped himself into awareness, grunting as he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom he shared with his sisters. When he came back ten minutes later, Steve was reading one of his books, feigning obliviousness. Bucky threw an old sock at his head, and Steve looked up to find that the hard-on was gone.

They’d had waffles for breakfast that morning, courtesy of Mrs. Barnes. Then, Steve had gone home and jerked off twice to thoughts of licking maple syrup from Bucky’s dick.

Huh. Maple syrup on Peggy's breasts. There was an idea.

Damn it.

Steve pushed away from the wall, scrubbing a hand through his hair, which probably needed washing. Scowling, he glancing at the map and decided to check out the exhibition on Persian tiles. That sounded safe and unerotic.

An hour later, he was done with tiles and the Met in general, so he headed outside and into the heat of the afternoon, grumpier than when he’d gone in. Which wasn’t fair—his outings to the museum were supposed to be relaxing.

Frustrated, he hopped on the 6, then transferred to the F at Bleecker Street, miraculously managing to snag himself a seat despite the crush of commuters.

When the train stopped at Delancey, Peggy got on.

Steve did a double take, sure his addled brain was projecting some latent fantasy to create a visual hallucination. Like, maybe she was gonna be holding a bottle of maple syrup.

But no. It was actually _Peggy_. Oblivious to Steve’s presence (though who wouldn’t be?), with a pair of headphones on her ears, the cord snaking into her purse, probably to a Walkman. She was holding a shopping bag with something flat and square inside, her head bobbing along to whatever song she was listening to, the toe of her boot tapping out a rhythm against the sticky floor.

Steve couldn’t stop thinking about the Schiele. Because Peggy was wearing a pair of denim shorts over the same kind of holey tights she’d had on at the party, plus a t-shirt that was like, white, and kind of thin? Which meant he could see the outline of her bra. _Fuck._

Looking down at his lap, Steve counted to ten while the door closed and the train moved on. Should he talk to her? No, he shouldn’t. There was no _way_ he was going to talk to her, actually, because she hadn't seen him and honestly? If she wanted to speak to him so badly, she would have asked for his number. He had been kidding himself by thinking otherwise.

So invested was Steve in his own sad story that he failed to notice a sadder one starting. Namely, a couple of assholes who got on the train at East Broadway and decided that a sixteen-year-old girl was someone who owed them her time and attention.

Steve noticed the kissy noises first, which started as they traveled beneath the river. Little chirrups, coming from nowhere, but when he looked up, he couldn’t find the source. Peggy hadn’t moved, headphones clamped firmly in place, so he chalked it up to weird MTA shit before looking back down.

The kissing noises began again around York Street, accompanied by some rank comment about Peggy’s tits. The assholes—both of them college-aged, and bigger than Steve—approached her, leering in that charmless way of all true dillholes.

"Hey, baby," said the blond Princeton reject with the same haircut as Bucky, sans Bucky's charm.

Peggy ignored them, though her shoulders stiffened.

“What, don’t you got ears?” said Dick-the-Second, whose only distinguishing features were his dark, curly hair and the fact that he had a mouth made for punching.

Peggy rolled her eyes. Dark-and-curly reached up to pull her left headphone from her ear.

“Piss off,” she snapped, knocking his hand away.

“Aw, hey, English!” said Blond. “Hey, hey baby girl…me and my friend were wondering. Are those natural or—”

Steve was already on his feet. “Hey!” he shouted, grateful that his deep voice made him sound older and tougher than he was. “You wanna leave her alone?”

Problem was, the voice only worked until someone saw him—all knees and elbows at five foot five. The dicks turned as the train began slowing in its approach to the next station. Dark-and-curly grinned, shoving Steve's shoulder. "How 'bout you fuck off, squirt?”

So, Steve punched him. Tried to, anyway—his swing missed, so he ended up punching air. Dark-and-curly’s smug grin faded at the attempted attack, and Steve only had a second to prepare before he was punched in return, the guy’s fist connecting squarely with his nose.

So, yup. That hurt.

“This your boyfriend, tits?” sneered Blond. Through the haze of red, Steve could see him leaning closer to Peggy, hands out.

What Steve _didn’t_ see coming, however, was Peggy’s knee, which rose to knock Blond in the nads before she delivered a sharp right hook to his jaw that sent him sprawling as the train squealed to a halt. Dark-and-curly hollered, lunging for his friend, then rounded on Peggy, who looked pissed enough to spit nails. The doors opened before he could grab her, and Peggy exchanged a wordless glance with Steve before bolting onto the platform.

Steve, who had no desire to get punched again, scooted after her. She was fast—already halfway up the stairs. A quick glance over his shoulder told him they weren’t being chased, but he was still high on adrenaline, wild-eyed and panting, following her through the turnstiles and up to the street, where she rounded on him the moment they hit the sunlight.

“What the fuck was that?” she snapped.

Steve stopped short; for a moment, he wondered if she even remembered him. "Excuse me?"

“I had it under control.”

“They were—”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But—”

“You think I haven’t dealt with morons before?” she said. “ _You_ escalated that, Steve.”

So, she _did_ remember him. Steve sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and swiped a hand across his face, a trail of blood and snot left in its wake. No hail-the-conquering hero from her, then. But, well, he supposed he might have made things worse. Because he had a temper. And, like, he _occasionally_ acted without thinking through the consequences.

“I was just trying to help!”

Peggy exhaled through her nose. “I’m sure you think that you were.”

“I _was_ ,” he said, the forcefulness of the statement sending another volley of blood down his face. “Fuck.”

“Christ,” Peggy said. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Uh.” Steve looked around, pinching the tip of his nose in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He didn’t recognize the neighborhood, but he knew the cross-street. “Dunno. We can get another train?”

“Let’s just walk,” she said dismissively. “We can’t be that far. You’re a fright, though. You’ll need to get cleaned up.”

“Yup.”

“Surely there’s a diner around here?”

“Probably.”

“Quick march,” she said, tossing her head. “We’ll have lunch.”

Steve watched as she picked a direction and started walking, not worrying about whether or not it was the right way to go. Blinking twice, he jogged after her, mentally silencing the tiny voice in the back of his mind that was incessantly asking whether this was, like, a date?

 


	3. a compass wouldn't help

**And there is no map** **  
****And a compass wouldn’t help at all** **  
** _-Björk_

## 2005

Steve was taller than her now.

Of all the incredible things that had happened, Steve towering over her was the one Peggy couldn't wrap her head around as they made their way up Ludlow. Although _towering_ was a bit of a misnomer—he had an inch, maybe two, but there was no denying he had grown. He was broader, as well (though she wouldn’t go so far as to say broad), his once gangly limbs having filled out, shoulders squared against the straining material of the t-shirt he wore. Still slim, with his delicate, long-fingered hands and incongruously twisted nose. Still golden, too, but his previously long locks had been tamed, cut to match the times, shaggy as they fell around his face in a heavy fringe. Lovely as ever, though she kept that to herself as they walked.

“You haven’t got work in the morning, have you?” she asked, breaking the companionable silence as they waited for a signal on Houston. The question was a leading one, the sort of question one asked when attempting to glean relevant information from an old friend. Parsing out the bits and bobs of who and what they were now, when you hadn’t seen them in more than a decade.

“Nah. I hardly ever get scheduled for Thursdays.”

Steve did something with a set schedule, then. Irregular hours. Punching a clock. Peggy reached into her pocket, pulling out a nearly-done packet of Dunhills, tapping one into her palm and sticking it between her lips. Smoke 'em while you've got 'em, she supposed, though she really ought to quit—the city had banned smoking in bars, and the taxes on cigarettes were entirely unreasonable, even for someone who could afford it.

Also, probably they’d kill her one day.

She lit up anyway.

“What’s work, then?” she pressed, flipping her lighter closed.

“Ah,” Steve shrugged, shoving both hands into his front pockets as his shoulders curled. “I uh. I mean. It’s temporary? But I work in a grocery store?”

Defensive; expecting and inviting judgment. As if there were anything shameful about an honest day’s work. The walk sign took a turn toward the inviting, so Peggy started forward. “How do you like that, then?”

“Fine, I guess,” Steve said, matching her pace, spine straightening as he strode forward. Holding himself higher than when she’d known him before. “Pays the bills.”

Christ, small talk was shit. “Suppose so,” she agreed.

Silence fell as they reached the other side of the street, and Steve filled the gap with, “I kinda lied before.”

“Oh?”

“I uh. I already knew you were back in New York.”

Peggy’s fingers twitched, and she nearly dropped her cigarette.

“I saw you. Online, I mean. On the Bifrost’s page—you were in their top eight.”

“Ah.” She smiled, breathing easier. That made sense. “Yes. I lost a wager with Val.”

“Wait, really?”

"Yes. So I didn't ask them to put me there if that's what you're wondering."

“It wasn’t,” he said. “I just, you know. I like their stuff. And I saw you. And I clicked.”

“It’s a shit picture.”

“It’s a nice picture,” he corrected, then shrugged. “I was gonna message you, but uh…I thought maybe you wouldn’t want that.”

Peggy frowned. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Just, well, you kind of disappeared, back then. I wrote you letters— _we_ did, I mean.”

"I know," she said, because she wasn't going to lie to him, though it did sting to watch his face fall. "I got the ones you sent to my mother's house. And I did… I'd always intended to write back. It was only—" She blew out a cloud of smoke, the bitterness of that long-ago autumn coating her teeth. "Things were complicated."

“With your mother?”

"Yes." She looked over—up—at him and offered a smile. "I thought a clean break would be easier. Then I went back to school, and every time I thought about you two, I figured you were so angry with me, I couldn't bring myself to write."

“We weren’t angry.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, then. Besides, everything feels so _brutal_ when you’re that age—final, you know?”

Steve nodded as if he did.

Peggy took a left onto Avenue A, tone light as she pressed on. “Do you still keep up with Bucky?”

Steve laughed, some small, surprised bark of a thing. Hard to say if it was bitter or boisterous, so she pressed, eyebrow raised, stepped around a pile of bin bags piled high on the curb.

“Sore subject?”

“No, not at all,” he said, grinning. “We uh. We’re still, you know. Together.”

Peggy’s stomach gave a funny swooping flutter, Bucky’s grin in her mind’s eye. God, she ought to have known. It had always been Steve and Bucky. Bucky and Steve. The foregone conclusion, while she’d been a minor character in the prologue. “Oh, wow,” she said, smile genuine.

“Yeah, we ah…” Steve shrugged. “We’d get married if it was legal, you know? We did all the uh…legal crap to get as close as we could. Power of attorney and whatever.”

"Of course," she said, heart beating a syncopated tattoo in her chest. They were married, for all intents and purposes. Still clinging to one another after all these years. Laughing at their stupid jokes, smiling their sweet smiles, and God, weren't they lucky? "That's …wonderful," she said. "What's he up to?"

Steve’s smile faded. Peggy sensed she’d hit a sore spot. “He’s not…” He trailed off with a half-shrug, and she could see the gears turning in his mind as he worked out how much he ought to tell her. Because she was a stranger now, where she hadn’t been before, and he and Bucky had years of shared secrets to which she wasn’t privy. “Bucky went into the military, after high school,” he said after some waffling. “And uh, he was in Sokovia, in ninety-seven?”

The name conjured visions of bombed out streets and terror-stricken refugees. Peggy winced. “Jesus. With the—?”

“Yeah. He uh. There was a bomb. He lost an arm.”

Peggy inhaled sharply, a “fuck” passing her lips.

“Which, you know, so…” Steve frowned. “He’s not working right now.”

Bucky—God, _Bucky_ —a soldier? Peggy couldn’t picture it, no matter how hard she tried. Bucky in fatigues? A uniform? Holding a gun? Didn’t fit. Of the two of them, Steve had seemed the soldiering type, with his father’s dog tags around his neck like some sort of talisman. He’d mentioned pursuing it, once or twice. Joining up when school was through to get money for college. Not out of some misguided machismo, but because he believed he might be able to do some good. To provide relief to those being crushed beneath the boot of the military industrial complex. Because Steve, for all his cynicism, believed deep down in the decency of people. Peggy had never been able to say the same.

Bucky, though? Bucky had been settled. Solidly middle-class with two parents and twin sisters and no shortage of opportunities. Scholarships. Straight As. Every door held open, waiting for him to choose which one he’d step through.

Bucky had never been the one she’d worried about.

“I’m sorry,” she said, words catching in her throat.

“Thank you,” Steve replied. “I mean, we’re used to it now—it’s been eight years. It…but when he first got home, things were uh…well, it’s just life these days, you know?”

“I suppose it must be,” she agreed. In some small way, she could relate. “Ah, right turn—up here on fifth. Sorry.”

Steve steered them around the corner, and their destination lay ahead. Sophie' s—one of the last, great dive bars in New York City—which wasn't much to write home about, but remained Peggy's favorite establishment, all the same. She'd been introduced to the bar through a friend of a friend's ex-girlfriend, the grimy exterior pointed out to her the first time she'd visited the city for work. After that, she'd been in the habit of stopping by whenever she was in town. Now that she lived within spitting distance, give or take a mile, her presence between the four sticky walls of Sophie's embrace was much more frequent.

“Oh shit,” Steve laughed. “I know Sophie’s.”

“Do you?”

“We used to come here in college.”

“Oh? NYU?” she asked, her knowledge of higher education in the city limited by her neighborhood, with its bevy of too-cool kids and purple-flagged buildings.

Steve held the door for her as they ducked inside the dingy, crowded bar. "God, no," he laughed. "I'd never have been able to afford it. It was uh, Cooper Union? I got lucky—decent grades and promise as an artist."

“It’s nearby?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearing a path to the bar, surefooted as he strode through the crowd. As if expecting people to move, rather than assuming the world would walk right over him. “Lemme get you a drink?”

“Thought I was getting you one?”

He grinned. “You can pick up the second round. See if you can snag us a table?”

“Vodka tonic, then,” she said, leaving him to order as she went to find some seats. Regrettably, the only option was a table tucked into the back corner by the loo. Not exactly prime real estate, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She fought her way over, grabbing a stool and waiting for Steve, who turned up a few minutes later, one glass in each hand.

“It’s well vodka,” he said. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Absolutely not,” she deadpanned, only to watch his face fall. “No, it’s fine! I’m joking!”

“Oh.” He smiled, shoulders relaxing as he put the drinks down and took the second stool. Peggy’s eyes caught on his arms as he scooted closer. The way his biceps flexed. Not huge, but _muscled_ —she’d noticed it earlier, only now she was ogling, so she snapped her eyes to his face, cheeks gone warm.

“So where’s Bucky tonight?” she asked, reminding herself that Steve was taken.

"He wasn't feeling so good," he said, sipping what looked to be a lager. "Stayed home."

“Shame—he missed a great set.”

“Yeah, he—” Steve grunted, some idiot jostling him from behind. Peggy could just about see the scrappier version of himself underneath the grown-up veneer, bristling at the perceived offense. Remarkably, though, he settled, smiling at her instead of engaging. “He’s still got shit taste in music. But uh, he had a headache, too.”

“Ah,” she nodded, reaching for her glass. “Does he still think Axl Rose is the height of cool?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Such a shame.”

“No shit,” he laughed. “But if I have to talk about Bucky’s taste, I’ll end up ranting, and that’s, you know. No fun for you. So, changing the subject entirely, where are you living?”

“West Village.”

“Fuck,” he grinned. “That _is_ a good job.”

Steve wasn't wrong—she made decent money, especially for her age. All the same, she worked her arse off, and it wasn't as though her place in the Village was huge or exceptionally swanky. "I do alright," she said, the words coming out clipped. "You're still in Brooklyn?"

Despite the darkness of the bar, she was sure Steve looked abashed. “Yeah. We uh…the same apartment I was in when you knew me, actually.”

“How’s your mum?” she asked, then watched his face fall. Shit.

“She’s. Ah. She died?”

“Christ, Steve, I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a while,” he continued, speaking over her stumbling apology. “I was twenty-three. It, ah…you know. Cancer.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “But uh, she left me the apartment. I don’t know if you knew that we owned it.”

“I didn’t.”

"It's kinda…convenient, actually. My grandparents got a deal in the sixties when they converted the one house into a co-op. The mortgage was paid off by the time my grandma died, then it passed to ma, and now, well, it's mine. Which is great because hey, no rent, but the property taxes are a killer, and the maintenance costs suck."

That last bit was said with a rueful grin, as though he ought to have _something_ to complain about in a city where the average rent was growing by leaps and bounds annually, pushing people further and further to the fringes. Owning the flat explained how they were managing on a single retail salary, but Steve was right: the taxes would be no joke, so she had to imagine things were tight.

“I love that flat,” she said with a smile. “Lots of ah…good memories there.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Me, too. We uh…Bucky and I moved into ma’s bedroom. But uh, my old room…we kept the bed.”

Peggy, who had been sipping her drink, choked. Steve grinned.

"It's the guest room now," he continued as if he hadn't nearly killed her.

“I’ll thank you,” she began, recovering herself admirably and deciding not to give him the satisfaction of her blushing nostalgia. “Not to give me shit about living in the Village when you’ve got a bloody _guest_ room to boast about.”

“That’s _different_!” he protested. “I’m hardly ever in Manhattan.”

“Snob. I’m in Brooklyn all the time.”

Steve pursed his lips. “Are you, or are you not, mostly in Williamsburg?”

Peggy didn't have a decent answer, so she balled up a napkin and threw it at his head. "Piss off."

That got a squawk out of him, followed by a burst of the same infectious laughter that hadn’t changed since he was fifteen, both of them snorting into their drinks.

“You oughta come over,” he said once they’d recovered.

“What, _now_?” she laughed.

“No!” He shook his head. “Sometime, though. Buck’ll wanna see you.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “We’ll cook you dinner. Or, Bucky will. I’ll supervise.”

A dangerous proposition, Peggy knew. Seeing Bucky again? Christ. That was playing with fire in the hopes of being burned. But what was life if not a series of lit matches?

“Name the date.”

 

* * *

 

## 1993

Peggy wasn’t familiar with this part of Brooklyn. But then, she wasn’t familiar with _any_ parts of Brooklyn, considering she’d lived there for all of three weeks. All she knew was that she’d fallen in love with the borough and the city. Everything about New York was bigger and faster and cooler and _better_ than what she’d left behind in London. Fuck, she wanted to stay forever. Wanted to be a fool, to buy into every cliche about the city that never slept. To make it there, thereby proving that she could make it _anywhere_. To know the Bronx was up and the Battery down. To get to the Roxy before the prices changed.

The only trouble was, technically, she was only there for the summer. But that seemed an eminently solvable problem. All she had to do was convince her aunt and uncle she was worth the trouble. That she’d be good, and studious, and wouldn’t cause them any bother, so long as they let her stay. Finish her schooling, then find some university to take her. Anything she could do to hang onto the city with both hands, digging in with such a tight grip that she could forget her other life ever existed.

“That’s the wrong way,” came a nasal voice from behind.

Ah. And then there was Steve.

Steve, the _other_ thing about New York City, who’d given her a light when she’d asked for one. Steve, who was currently pinching the tip of his nose, following her as she strode in no particular direction. Her would-be white knight, who stood up for her when he really ought to have stayed sitting. Part of her appreciated his gallantry, while another wanted to shake him for being so presumptuous. Still, he was sweet, in his way. She’d very much liked him at the party, so running into him again, albeit under imperfect conditions, felt a bit like destiny.

“ _You’re_ the one who lives here,” she said, none of the warmth she felt coloring her tone as she turned on her heel, nearly causing him to crash into her. Christ, he was _still_ bleeding. “You need a tissue.”

"Well, _you_ said to find a diner," he said, cutting his eyes across the street to where there was a small restaurant. Heedless of quality, Peggy stepped into the street after checking for cars, then marched to the door of the diner and stepped inside.

"Sit wherever you want," floated a voice from behind a Formica counter, the waitress more concerned with whatever she was doing to the till than the state of Steve's face.

Though, the woman's ignorance might have had something to do with the fact that Steve was letting his long hair fall over said face, obscuring the worst of the gusher. Not that Peggy minded—he looked more like Kurt when he did that, which was why she'd noticed him in the first place. The fact that he was cute beneath the hair was an added perk; he could have had a face like a smacked arse, and she'd still have fancied him, so long as he had that mane.

She very much wanted to touch it. Wanted to kiss him, too. Might have, the other night, if he hadn’t looked like such a frightened rabbit.

The moment they were settled in a booth, Steve reached for the napkin dispenser, yanking out a wad to press against his face.

“You’re going to have a black eye,” she observed.

“Probably,” he mumbled.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, and oh, she liked that. The personality. Nearly smiled at him, except a smile might make him think she was appreciative of his rank stupidity.

“I had it under control,” she reminded him, which was true. Bigger bell ends than those two said things to her all the time, so she was used to dealing with it. Developing tits at twelve had put her in the path of a fair few fuckers, which wasn’t to say the behavior was _acceptable_ , but that was life. Peggy bore it—lashed out when she could, played it safe when she had to, enduring the insults and asides. So, while she could appreciate Steve’s gesture for what it was, he’d ended up escalating things with the sheer hubris of being male and somewhat chivalrous.

Steve scowled, blowing his nose. Peggy nearly gagged at the fresh font of blood that soaked the napkin.

“Shi-iiiiiit,” he bleated.

“Oh my God.” Moved by an innate need to avoid a biohazard, she grabbed a fistful of napkins and went to assist, hands covering his as she pressed the paper to his face. It might have been romantic, save for the mucus coating her fingers.

“Shit,” Steve repeated, voice barely audible as he swallowed. Peggy shuddered to think of what had been in the mouthful. “I’m gonna. Bathroom.”

"Yes," Peggy agreed, as she needed to do the same. "We'll. Ah. Yes."

They nearly collided twice in their attempt to scramble out of the booth. Peggy went to the toilets, where she washed her hands six times, scrubbing until her skin was pink and she was sure no trace of blood remained. After that, she returned to her seat. The other side of the booth was still empty, but Steve had had considerably more to manage. A second later, the waitress appeared to take her drink order, and Peggy requested a chocolate milkshake (as it felt quite American), along with two glasses of water.

Steve arrived about the same time the waitress came back with the water, and he ordered a Coke before glancing at Peggy from beneath his obscenely long eyelashes, the skin beneath his nose rubbed red and raw.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said at the same moment, making them both stop. Pause. Exchange a smile. “You were only trying to help,” she conceded.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you uh…I shouldn’t have spoken for you like that. I just, like. Got pissed.”

That was more words strung together than he’d managed for most of their conversation at the party, save for his strange little diatribe about cigarettes and asthma. Peggy smiled. “It’s fine.”

“Bucky says I don’t think.”

“Bucky?”

“The uh…you remember. From Friday?”

Peggy blinked, feigning ignorance. “Oh. Can’t recall.”

“Um, he’s tall. He was with me?”

Reaching for her water, she took a sip. “Ah.”

“You really didn’t remember him?”

“I suppose he didn’t make much of an impression.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Steve’s friend— _Bucky_ , honestly, what was wrong with his parents?—had been hard to miss. Tall, dark, and handsome, if one was being idiomatic. Striking, with a cocksure swagger and a million-watt grin. Peggy knew his type. Peggy had been taken for a bloody _ride_ by his type. The charming type. The beguiling type. The type that played fast and loose with a girl’s heart until they found a prettier prospect. Someone simpler. Sweeter. Less broken.

So yes. Peggy had noticed Bucky. Had felt the sick, swirling memory of blokes gone by when he looked at her. Had felt his hunger. His desire. Had wanted nothing to do with him at all.

Then, upon looking past him, she’d seen Steve, who had rendered her smitten.

“Really?” he said, raising a disbelieving brow.

“Well, I suppose I _saw_ him,” she conceded. “He’s rather tall, isn’t he?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t like him?”

“No,” she said, laying bare a fraction of her tender heart. “Liked his mate, though.”

Steve grinned, ducking his head. “You did?”

“Mmmhmm.”

A pause. “It’s just. Most girls like Bucky.”

“I’m not most girls.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Christ,” she said, irritated at the second-guessing. “Why does it matter?”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t, I guess.”

“If you must know,” she continued. “I know his sort, and he’s not my type.”

“His sort?”

“Flirty. Has million girls going at once. Notches in the bedpost. That sort of thing.”

The furrow deepened, and Steve shook his head. “Bucky’s not like that.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Well, like, okay. He’s always…around a lot of girls. But he’s not a _sort_.” Sitting up straight, Steve pushed his hair from his bruised face, speaking with a heretofore unseen eloquence. “He’s smart, and he’s nice, and like, we’ve been friends since we were little kids, so I know him pretty well. He’s got sisters that he helps take care of, and he runs track, and he tutors elementary kids, and—”

“Steve,” she said, attempting to get a word in edgewise.

"—he sticks up for me when I'm getting shit, and he goes to Mass with his grandma, and like, yeah, he and Sharon used to date, but she doesn't hate him or anything, so—"

“Jesus, alright!” She laughed, holding up both hands. “He’s a saint!”

“I mean. He’s not a _saint_ ,” Steve shrugged. “He’s just like…awesome, you know?”

“But why does it matter?” she pressed, confused by his vehement defense.

“I uh. I mean. I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about him, is all.”

“That’s…” Peggy shook her head and pursed her lips. “Can I be frank for a moment?”

“You can be frank all day,” Steve said. “Howdy, Frank.”

The joke was so stupid it took Peggy a second to realize what he’d meant, and when she did, she grinned. “Christ.”

“You can be him, too.”

“Steve!” It was such a little thing, that half-hysterical squeak of laughter, except she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sounded so happy.

Steve grinned. “What’s up, Frank?”

“Fuck.” She snorted, looking down at her hands. This one? She liked this one. That was a rarity, considering she could count on one hand the number of people left in her life she could tolerate. “All I was going to say, is that while Bucky might be an _actual_ saint, that doesn’t make me interested in him. He’s fine. If you say he’s not a pillock, then I’ll take your word for it. But—”

“He’s not.”

“ _Noted_ ,” she said, reaching over to flick the back of his hand with her thumb and forefinger. “All the same, I really don’t give a shit about him. _You’re_ the one I like. Even if you did nearly get us murdered on the F train.”

Steve dropped his gaze, hair hiding his face again. Interesting, how talkative he could be when it came to defending the merits of his mate, yet he couldn’t meet her eyes when he was the one receiving the compliment. “Okay,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Peggy repeated. She wanted to press—to tease him—but she got the sense he was struggling to accept that she was interested at all. How fucking ignorant the world was, to have overlooked Steve so thoroughly. In fact, if there was anything she _did_ like about Saint Bucky, it was that he _hadn’t_ passed Steve over for less awkward options. “What are you having to eat?” she asked, supposing he might want a change of topic.

“Huh?”

“For lunch. My treat, remember?”

“Oh.” He didn’t bother glancing at the shiny plastic menu with its spuriously spelled sandwich options. “Probably a burger?”

“A burger,” she echoed. “You’re certain they’ll have that?”

“It’s a diner,” he said, face brightening. “They’ll have it.”

“Then that’s what I’m having as well.”

The waitress came by for their orders, then left them to their conversation. The topic shifted again when Steve asked Peggy what she thought of Bjork. That set off a firestorm of debate over the relative merits and mediocrities of certain bands, and while there was plenty of common ground, there were a few bones of contention. Steve, for example, was entirely taken with Radiohead, while Peggy thought they were bleak, whingeing nonsense. The discussion was wonderful; Peggy loved every minute. The tiny squabbles and the crowing joy when their tastes coincided. Now that Steve had poked his head out of his shell, she could see that he was funny, with a self-deprecating sense of humor and sardonic wit.

Which meant she was falling further for him with every passing moment.

The conversation drifted from music to movies, where they found more commonalities, as well as a fair few cultural differences in things he loved that she'd never heard of. For example, Steve's favorite movie—something called the Rocky Horror Picture Show, was one she had never seen or even heard of.

“Oh, you _have_ to see it," he exclaimed. "Bucky and I watch it every Halloween, and this year we're gonna go to the live show because you have to be sixteen and—"

“Wait, it’s a play?”

“No, no, no,” he said, launching into a long-winded explanation of what, precisely, constituted live. Through that, she learned that Steve would be turning sixteen in July, that Bucky was already sixteen, that Bucky’s birthday party had been epic, that Bucky ran track, that Bucky this, and Bucky that, and Bucky the other.

It seemed there was no having a conversation with Steve sans the topic of Bucky. Best friends since childhood, their lives so intertwined it was impossible to separate them. Any anecdote Steve spouted was sure to contain Bucky’s presence, sometimes to a frustrating degree. Because as story after story was told, Peggy noticed that Steve tended to cast himself as Bucky’s shadow, standing on the sidelines of his glory.

She mulled that over as the waitress brought the bill, which she paid using the cash her uncle had given her for emergencies. (Which, technically, this was.) The thought continued to pick at her while Steve took the lead in walking them home, the two of them traversing strange streets on the way to her aunt and uncle’s building. By the time they got there, Peggy had made up her mind about what to do next.

So when Steve stopped at the stoop and smiled at her, she didn’t hesitate, leaning down to kiss him full on the mouth, in front of God and Mrs. McCleskey, who happened to be out walking her poodle.

Steve tasted like onions and mustard and the milkshake she’d let him finish. Peggy swiped her tongue along the seam of his lips before pulling away, leaving him with a rather gormless expression on his face, blue eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“That’s for you,” she said, pulling out her key. “That’s _your_ story.”

“Wha-?” He blinked, confused.

“Nevermind. When are we going out again?”

“Are…are we?”

“Course we are. How’s Friday?”

“Yuh-yes, totally,” he agreed in an instant.

“Take me somewhere new.”

Steve grinned, shoulders squaring as he pushed his hair from his face. “Pick you up at eight, Frank?”

“Golly gee, I sure do hope so,” she said, affecting her best American moll.

Steve laughed out loud, which left her with no choice but to kiss him again, red lips meeting open mouth in an awkward bumping of teeth and noses. Not quite so romantic as the first, but being as all good first kisses led to mediocre second ones, Peggy didn’t mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, all! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


	4. he walks on air

**Kinda like the way he wears his hair** **  
****Kinda like the way he walks on air** **  
** _-Teenage Fanclub_

 

# 2005

 

Bucky wasn’t his best self these days. Wasn’t any sort of self, really.

Prone to recriminations and passing blame. Prone to anger and outbursts. Prone to letting his fears manifest themselves in sniping squabbles with the one person in the world who’d always had his back. The one person he could count on.

Christ, he was an asshole.

But not because he hadn't wanted to go to Steve's show. Hadn't wanted to drag himself off the couch, struggle into real clothes, and get on the subway with a million other people so he could listen to music he didn't even understand.

No, he was an asshole because he could have been nicer about saying no.

Could have gone to therapy.

Could have journaled.

Could have seen a doctor.

Could have agreed to the surgery.

Could have done a lot of shit.

What he’d done instead was skip therapy, laze on the couch, and get into a massive fight with his boyfriend because his fucking shoulder was killing him.

That fucking shoulder—the right shoulder, the shoulder that shouldn’t have been a problem—was becoming a lousy excuse. Mainly because it _always_ hurt—a chronic pain with a low, burning ache that had been with him since the day he'd woken in a German hospital missing an arm. But there was that old pain, and then there was this _new_ pain. The dull throb giving way to sharp bites; an ice pick tap-tap-tapping against his right shoulder blade. The shrapnel, embedded into the very heart of him, had been moving over the past year. Twisting its way deep down, scraping against sinew and bone and nerves and joints until his life became no more and no less than a series of shallow, hesitant movements, lest he invite some additional agony.

Couldn’t sleep when it hurt. Couldn’t dream when he might wake screaming without someone there to soothe him. So he twisted and turned against sweat-damp sheets that smelled of Steve and played their argument over and over in his head.

Head hurt, too. These new headaches came part and parcel with the shoulder pain, muscles bunching and tightening around his neck, tension ratcheting until he couldn’t think past the misery of his continued existence.

He thought he might be hungry, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Steve had slammed out of the house before getting any dinner, and Bucky wasn’t the best at remembering to feed himself when Steve wasn’t around. Cooking for Steve made him happy; cooking for himself didn’t seem worth the effort.

Stomach grumbling, he rolled over, blinking at the neon green of the alarm clock. Two a.m.

Where was Steve? He’d been gone since seven, so even if the show was at nine or ten, he should have been back hours ago.

Unless he was still pissed—the sort of pissed where he might call Lorraine or one of his college buddies to stay with them rather than coming home and dealing with Bucky.

On those nights—those rare nights when Bucky pushed too hard—a little voice in the back of his head told him that eventually, Steve would go away for good.

The rational Bucky didn’t believe that was true, no matter how much the ragged bits of his brain tried to convince him, but it was hard to ignore those bits when they started screaming.

The thing was, though, Steve Rogers was nothing if not doggedly determined to see the shitshow that was Bucky Barnes through to the end of whatever piss-poor life he carved out for himself. Still, lying there in an empty bed, Bucky couldn't help imagining a future for Steve without him in it. A future where Steve was successful and happy and didn't have to fret over every goddamn electric bill when it came due.

“Shit,” he muttered, the fear opening such a chasm he was forced to sit and rub his hand across his face, shoulder wrenching at the sudden movement. “ _Shit_.”

He got to his feet, groaning and flexing his toes against the parquet, then shambling into the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers. The fridge beckoned, a cool beacon in the slick heat of the early hour, and he yanked it open, wasting money for a full minute as he studied the contents, eventually settling on a takeout container of leftover lo mein from the place down the street.

Probably a week old, at least, but it passed the sniff test, so he put it on the counter. Flipped it open one-handed and shoveled noodles into his mouth, hardly tasting them as he chewed and swallowed. Ate until he thought he might be sick, then shoved the container back in the fridge with a burp.

Still feeling bad about the fight, a pernicious guilty worm gnawing at his gut, he went to the living room and stretched out on the couch, arm over his eyes, stomach churning while his body settled into its usual discomforts. It was a strange thing, this life where everything hurt, and nothing hurt because when there were so many sources of pain, it was hard to differentiate between what was real and what was his mind playing tricks. Hard to be concerned with the low, everyday misery when there were new, jagged-edged torments to stress over.

Mostly, though, it was just that fucking shoulder. The fact of its existence hidden and unspoken in the meat of every fight they had these days. Long gone were the simple squabbles about who was picking the movie or bickering over which video game was best. Now, they fought for keeps, and even the mundane, married arguments had the undercurrent of the surgery-that-would-not-be-named bubbling beneath.

The was the other thing: The Surgery. The hovering specter. The capital letters that turned his belly to liquid.

Because it was a new surgery. Unnecessary surgery. Quality of life surgery.

Bucky was so tired of fucking surgeries. Tired of doctors. Tired of hospitals with their antiseptic smells and well-meaning nurses. Hadn’t he paid his dues? Fuck, he’d already clocked more time in the ER than most people would in a lifetime. Damage control, they’d called it. Saving what they could. Taking out what they couldn’t. Leaving him full of a thrift shop’s worth of embedded shrapnel along with a promise that life would be bearable, if not pleasant.

They’d been right about that. Bucky’s initial recovery had been hellish, the physical therapy torture, and the toll on his mental health incalculable. But he’d persevered. Gotten through it. Kept up the regime for Steve’s sake, because for some god damn reason, Steve still wanted him around. Still loved this sour, half-living version of the boy he’d kissed a hundred thousand times. Steve looked at Bucky like he hadn’t changed, and Bucky didn’t know how to feel about that. Didn’t know how to tell him that he _had_. That he couldn’t be the guy Steve remembered because that guy had died when the bomb went off and someone else had woken up in his place. Someone who looked like him, maybe, thought like him a little. Spoke like him often, but _wasn’t_ him.

He wouldn’t ever be that guy again.

Despite everything stacked against them, though, they'd managed. For six years, they'd survived. Through Steve's finishing college. Through Bucky's parents moving. Through Sarah dying. Through, and through, and through, until a year ago when the shrapnel started shifting and things got worse. Hour by hour. Day by day.

Steve had insisted they see a doctor—some condescending prick who'd done a lot of imaging, then declared there was no hope. They'd gotten a second opinion. More tests, more pain, and that second doctor had offered The Surgery. Touted it as something that would ease the pain. Restore Bucky's quality of life.  Shit, it might even make that life better than it had been before, depending.

Not a _necessary_ surgery, but a beneficial one.

Fuck beneficial and fuck unnecessary. Bucky was done with endless waiting rooms and white walls and people who talked about him like he wasn't even there.

So he'd said no, and Steve had accused him of being chicken shit. That had been a blowout for the ages, with Bucky refusing to concede and Steve sulking for days. But the thing was, Steve was right: of course, he was scared, even if he wouldn't admit it. So fucking what? His life wasn't great, but he was living it, and he was managing to endure.

Only lately, endurance was becoming a losing battle. And as far as things with Steve went? The cracks in the foundation were beginning to show.

The front door opened around two forty-five. Bucky, who had been drifting, heard Steve step into the foyer. Drop his keys in the bowl. Lock both deadbolts. Then one, two, three steps down the hall, through the archway that led to their tiny living room.

Steve obviously hadn’t expected Bucky to be awake, so he jumped about three feet in the air when he realized. For just a moment, Bucky could see the outline of the skinny little twerp he’d been at eight. The grief-stricken twelve-year-old. The long-haired goober of sixteen.

“Shit!” Steve yelped.

“Hi,” he said, slower than he meant to, working his way out of the doze.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

“I thought you went to Lorraine’s.”

“No, I—” Steve stepped into the room, the light of the lamp by the television casting a warm glow on his pale skin. “You hurting, pal?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, too tired and sore to downplay Steve’s concern.

“Shoulder?”

"Mmmhmm. Head, too."

Steve dropped to his knees by the couch and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s sleep-muzzy mouth. “I’m sorry. I shoulda been nicer to you.”

“Shoulda been nicer to you, too,” he mumbled against his lips. “Sorry, too.”

“Sorry one more time, jerk,” Steve said, and that was that. “You want me to help?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Never do,” he replied, bumping their noses together before getting up and heading into the bathroom.

This was a familiar routine, one they’d been doing since Bucky moved in. Steve, inquisitive and eager to help, had spent time researching Bucky’s various ailments, as well as how to alleviate pain at home. He’d started talking about pressure points and massage therapy nonstop, and while Bucky had been skeptical at first, he had to admit that whatever Steve had learned in the classes he’d taken was helpful. Not so much these days, and never for long, but it allowed him to get to sleep on bad nights, even if he woke up sore in the morning.

While Steve was in the bathroom, Bucky got ready, tossing a cushion to the ground and sitting on it, drawing his legs to his chest and hooking his arm around his calves. Steve returned with the usual supplies—a heating pad, a bottle of massage oil, and some peppermint essence crap that he insisted was good for headaches.

Neither of them said much as Steve got settled, knees bracketing Bucky's torso, hands pulling him to rest between the "V" of his legs. Bucky shivered when Steve tugged on the elastic band holding his hair to release his ponytail before running his fingers through messy tangles, smoothing out snarls and rubbing circles against his scalp.

Going pliant under Steve’s touch, Bucky’s shoulders slumped as those careful fingers worked their way, slowly, to his neck. It was easy to lose himself like this; to forget about everything but the way Steve’s hands felt on his skin. Hard to remember a time _before_ this—not the massage itself, but a time before touch. Before Steve. A time when they'd been shy and skittish around one another, dancing away from the attraction they felt, pretending they were okay with just being friends.

“How was your show?” Bucky asked, surprised to feel Steve’s fingers twitch at the question.

“Fine.”

“Musta been a long one.”

“Mmm, no.” Steve leaned down. Pressed a kiss to the top of his head and sighed. “I went out for a drink.”

“Oh.”

“With uh. Peggy.”

Bucky inhaled, lungs expanding, ribs scraping against something inside of him that caused a wince. “You said you weren’t gonna message her!”

“I didn’t,” he said, both hands resting heavy on Bucky’s shoulders. Grounding him. “Besides, I woulda told you if I did. She was at the show for work—total coincidence.”

“For work?”

"Yeah.  She's uh, she's with a record label. Rebirth?"

That sounded like something Bucky _should_ know because of the shit Steve was into. Yet, he hadn't actually internalized it, which wasn't an unusual occurrence, what with all the weird, indie music skirting the periphery of his life. He loved Steve—loved how much Steve loved music—but he couldn't keep up with the various and sundry bands that flitted in and out of their stereo, much less the name of a random record label. "Oh. Wow."

“That’s why she moved to New York, I guess. She’s heading up some division or…I dunno. We didn’t talk about it much.”

Bucky groaned, distracted as Steve found an exceptionally large knot, leaning into his touch. "Fuck, right there, sweetheart."

“Sure,” Steve said, digging in, nimble fingers easing him through the pain until something loosened and the ache ebbed.

“How…was she happy to see you?” he asked, once he was on the other side of the discomfort.

“I think so.”

“Is she still cute?”

That got a laugh out of him. “Sure, she is.”

"Where’d--I mean, how come she never wrote?" That was the question, really. The one Bucky and Steve had obsessed over in the weeks and months after Peggy had gone away just as swiftly as she'd come. The question Steve had grieved over, in the end, while Bucky had pretended not to care so he could keep Steve smiling. The question of how she could have loved them and left them so easily; as if she'd never cared at all. It had always bothered him because the girl he'd known—the girl he'd adored—didn't square in his mind with the girl who'd ended things so abruptly. Not even abruptly, as abrupt implied some semblance of closure, which they'd never received.

"She said things were weird when she got home," Steve said. "That she was too upset, or something? She was a little vague."

“Still good at talking circles around you, huh?” he teased, smiling at the memory of Steve going tongue-tied and stupid around Peggy. That phase didn’t last long—once they were properly together, he was capable of holding his own—but the stumbling and the flailing had been something to see in the early days.

“I guess.”

“Where’d you guys go?”

“Sophie’s.”

“Is that the shithole where you had your twenty-first?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where the guy pissed on my shoe?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shoulda known. You two always liked pretending you were gritty and tough.”

“Hey!” Steve laughed. “I am gritty and tough!”

“You’re about as gritty as sandpaper on my taint, pal.”

“…that’s, like, _fairly_ gritty, Buck.”

"Whatever," he grinned, tipping his head back. "So, you gonna hang out with her again?"

“Uh, yeah.” Steve hesitated, hands moving to comb through Bucky’s hair. “She’s actually, I mean. I invited her over for dinner on Friday?”

Just like that, Bucky’s tension was back, muscles locking down, and spine stiffening as he twisted around, shoulder making its objections known. “ _Why_?”

“Shit, Bucky, be careful!” Steve said with a panicked yelp. “You’re gonna—”

“She doesn’t need to come over,” he said, talking right over Steve’s protestations. “The fuck are you thinking, bringing her here? There’s a million dumb places to go in this city and—”

“Yeah, alright, and how’s that gonna look?” Steve said, pushing right back. “Oh, no, Peggy, it’s just that Bucky’s scared shitless of seeing people he knows, so you can’t come over.”

“You know goddamn well why—”

“I already told her about your arm,” he said, voice rising. “So fuck that excuse.”

“Jesus _fuck_.”

“What? You really think _Peggy_ of all people is gonna give a shit about that?”

“You don’t know that she won’t!” he snapped, sullen as he dropped his head, hair falling in front of his face. It was a total Steve move—a holdover from the days when he’d been the one with the long hair. Bucky hadn’t seen the appeal of the look back then, but he got it now: the hair was an escape. A hiding place.

When he was younger, he hadn’t wanted to hide from anyone. He’d been beautiful then—sure-footed and fearless. And he’d taken it all for granted. Assumed that what he had was what he was owed, without seeing it for what it truly was: a gift.

The idea of Peggy seeing him now? That made him wanna barf. Shit, it had been hard enough to face his family. To face _Steve_. But Peggy? He didn’t want her to know him this way; didn’t want to live as anything but the version of himself that existed in her memories.

“Buck,” Steve said quietly, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Bucky’s too-skinny shoulders, tucking his face against the curtain of hair before pressing a half-dozen kisses to the crown of his head. “C’mon, it’s _Peggy_. I know you want to see her…don’t you?”

Bucky closed his eyes against the truth, because it _was_ the truth. Of course he wanted to see her. But _letting_ it happen, well, that was the hard part.

All the same, he knew he was going to allow it. Because Steve was Steve, and Bucky was Bucky, and Bucky giving himself over to Steve’s whims and desires was how things had been in the beginning, were now, and always would be. World without end, glory be, so long as Bucky kept breathing.

“I hope she’s not expecting some fancy fuckin’ food,” he mumbled, acquiescing against the material of Steve’s worn shirt.

 

# 1993

 

Steve was late, which was like…monumentally fucking weird. Of the two of them, Bucky had a tendency to be less than punctual—prone to tardiness at school, work, wherever. He got away with it through a combination of charm and goodwill, blaming his faults on his mother, who had never met a deadline she couldn't miss, or an appointment she couldn't forget. How was it Bucky's fault that she'd passed that lousy habit on to him? It was practically genetic!

Plus, it wasn’t like he didn’t _try_ to be on time. He just didn't do so well when it came to estimating how long a shower was gonna take, or whether the trains were running local, or how long he'd need to walk, or a million other things that added up to him being late regularly. The constant delays drove Steve crazy, though, and of the four big fights they'd ever had, two of them had been about Bucky being late to something kind of important.

Which made it super extra annoying that Steve was the one currently running behind. Because Bucky, to be a conscientious friend for once, had shown up to the theater _fifteen_ whole minutes early. Had bought the tickets, the popcorn, the _everything_. And now the previews were probably starting, and he really liked the previews, but instead of watching them, he was standing outside smoking and waiting for his dumb friend like a chump.

He was just about ready to go inside, friendship be damned, when Steve came jogging around the corner, a big, goofy grin on his face. The smile faded considerably when he spotted Bucky’s scowl, though.

"Hey," he said, and Bucky didn't miss the slight wheeze or the fact that his nose looked kind of…weird. Busted or broken or something. There was probably a story there. He didn't have time to hear it. "Sorry—"

Bucky rolled his eyes, dropping the cigarette before tossing his head toward the doors. “Whatever.”

“Buck…”

“What _ever_ ,” he reiterated, shoving Steve’s popcorn into his hands, then stalking inside.

Steve followed like a silent shadow, the two of them slipping into the already dark theater where the previews were nearly over. Annoyingly, it was super full, so they were forced to sit near the front, on the lefthand side, which was Bucky’s number one worst place to watch any movie, _especially_ a movie he’d been looking forward to for, like, a million years. Since he’d first heard about it, anyway. And, okay, he wasn’t some total dork, but he’d always been into dinosaurs, and the special effects were supposed to be killer, plus ET had been his favorite movie as a kid, and Steve had been late, and he was just…in a mood.

Especially because Steve still had a stupid smile on his face, which Bucky thought was a little much. What the hell did he have to be so happy about, besides almost making them miss the start of the movie?

“Thanks for getting the tickets,” Steve whispered as they settled.

"Shh," Bucky snipped back, jamming his hand into the popcorn, then shoving a mouthful past his lips so he wouldn't have to answer. Steve looked like he maybe wanted to say something else, but before he could, the last preview ended, and the movie got going, so the opportunity was lost, which was fine with Bucky.

And, okay, like, the movie itself? Fucking dope. Bucky's bad mood faded quickly, even if the angle at which he had to crane his neck left something to be desired. Steve loved it, too—Bucky could tell from the way he was jumping in his seat during the scary parts or guffawing with his mouth full of popcorn over a joke about a massive pile of dinosaur shit.

Which, yeah, _that_ was funny, and Bucky totally laughed, too. But he laughed in a way that was cooler, and decidedly less…Steve-ish. Definitely didn’t almost choke to death on his popcorn, anyway.

Steve did ridiculous shit like that a lot. And the thing was, Bucky _loved_ Steve. So much. They’d been best friends since they were little kids, so they knew each other better than anyone else in the world. But also, Steve could be kind of embarrassing. Mostly because he was the only person Bucky had ever met who genuinely didn’t give a single shit about being cool, or what other people thought of him. Plus, like, he didn’t care about any of the stuff Bucky cared about—not clothes, or parties, or _anything_.

Or, if he did, he never showed it. Instead, he was loud and outspoken about what he perceived to be wrong with the world, which ended up getting him picked on. Steve’s crusading had been all well and good when they were little, and the worst he might get was a scraped knee from being pushed down on the playground. But they were older now, which meant the bullies were bigger and Steve, being small, was an easy target. Which, like, to give Steve some credit, he wasn’t the one who started the fights. The problem for Bucky, though, was that when Steve inevitably got into said fights, he didn’t finish them. No, Steve’s favorite part was the middle, when he went charging in, full-steam, and got himself in trouble. _Bucky_ was the one who finished the fights, and he’d pulled Steve’s ass out of the fire more times than he could count over the past few years. So yeah, sometimes he wished Steve would just blend into the fucking scenery and keep his head down like everyone else.

It didn't help that Steve was younger than him by, like, three whole months, meaning he wasn't as mature when it came to decision making. Still, though, Steve was going to be sixteen in, like, a month and a half, so he needed to wise up to the ways of the world. Because for all that he was, you know, a decent person? He was also kind of a dumbshit baby about a bunch of stuff.

Take, for example, Bucky’s girlfriends. Granted, he had a rotating lineup to rival the Mets, but Steve got so fucking weird about it whenever he was hanging out with some new girl. Like, he never actually _said_ anything, but he’d sulk and grumble and act like the girl was some personal betrayal of their friendship, getting all pissy over the fact that Bucky couldn’t spend every second of every day with him.

The first couple times it had happened, Bucky had taken the liberty of pointing out that Steve could be dating, too. He’d even gone so far as to try and set up a double date for them. Which, holy shit, you’d think he had offered to _murder puppies_ with the reaction he'd gotten from Steve when he'd proposed that one. A ten-minute diatribe about how Steve wasn't gonna take some pity date and how Bucky just felt sorry for him, and on, and on, and on.

After that, Bucky had stopped trying. Steve was an idiot because he totally could have dated if he'd wanted to. It wasn't _Bucky’s_ fault that Steve was super insecure about the fact that he hadn’t had a growth spurt yet. That wasn’t even the end of the world! Bucky had made out with plenty of girls before his growth spurt, and none of them had ever turned him down for being short. But Steve tended not to listen to reason, as he much preferred being melodramatic. In fact, he’d spent so much time over the past year bitching about having never been kissed, that Bucky had almost offered to make out with him just to shut him up.

As a joke, obviously.

Like, ha ha.

Bucky wasn’t gay, but you didn’t have to be gay to think that, like, Steve had a pretty mouth? Like a girl’s mouth, sort of. Not really. Whatever: lips were lips, and lips didn’t have penises. Or something. Not that Bucky spent a lot of time thinking about Steve’s penis, except maybe in a purely scientific way. And it wasn’t like Steve was ugly—he was kinda handsome, even if he did have that dumb Kurt Cobain hair. Some girls were into that, though. Freaky girls, probably. The sort who’d let Steve do more with them than over-shirt boob gropings.

Like that rude brunette from the party—Sharon’s cousin Patsy, or whatever her name was. Sure, she’d been obnoxious, what with the way she’d ignored Bucky when he’d tried to say hi. Which, like, _actually_? Sharon was one of his really good friends (and also one of his three successful under-bra boob touchings, but who was counting?) and Bucky had been perfectly nice when he introduced himself. And like, yeah, okay, he wouldn’t have minded making out with her, but she’d been more into Steve’s weird cardigan and crust vibe, which was fine. Totally fine! Because maybe Steve would be less of a whiny dick about Bucky’s sex-adjacent life if he had someone to fuck around with, too.

Steve chose that moment to snort again, sending half-chewed popcorn spraying from his mouth. Which was decidedly un-sexy—probably he shouldn’t do that around Patsy.

“Je-sus,” Bucky laughed, nudging him. “Say it don’t spray it, dumbass.”

That got them shushed by a woman sitting in the row behind them, which only made Steve laugh harder. Which got Bucky giggling. Which turned into the two of them literally poking one another until the credits rolled, trying to get in jabs that the other one didn’t see coming. By the time they were ready to leave, Bucky was sure he was developing a bruise just below his ribcage. Steve was small, but he was goddamn vicious with his elbow when he wanted to be.

“That was fresh,” Steve exclaimed, turning to Bucky with a happy grin as people started getting up around them.

God, Steve was _so_ lame. Anytime he tried to use slang, Bucky was reminded of how very _not_ cool he was. Because nobody actually said fresh. Ever. Bucky grinned at him anyway, punching his arm one last time for the road. “Wanna come back to my place? My ma took the twins to some birthday party.”

“Sure.”

Half an hour later, they found themselves sitting on Bucky’s fire escape as the sun set behind the building across the street. Bucky was smoking a joint, while Steve nursed a soda, avoiding the exhaled smoke as best he could. Steve wasn’t tight or anything, but his asthma killed any desire he might have had to smoke, and after one super gnarly mishap with special brownies, they’d decided that pot was more of Bucky’s thing. (Although, privately, Bucky thought it was a shame—Steve really needed the chance to mellow the fuck out on occasion.)

“So like,” Steve said after they’d finished debating the relative merits of Jeff Goldblum. “I uh, saw that girl again?”

“What girl?” Bucky asked, distracted by how paltry his spliff was, and worried about whether his dealer could get him more. (This was a valid concern, as his dealer was his half-uncle who lived in Paramus, which meant supply didn’t always keep up with demand.)

“Uh, Sharon’s cousin? From the party? Peggy?”

Oh. Patsy. The rude one. Bucky sat up straighter. "Oh yeah? You called her?" Steve had been all freaked out about not getting her number until Bucky had pointed out that Sharon was in the school directory.

“Nah.” Steve pursed his lips, which was a sign that he had some big reveal to work toward, so Bucky was gonna be subjected to some convoluted story. “I went to the Met this morning, and then she was there.”

“Wait, she was at the Met?”

“ _No_. She was on my _train_.”

“You didn’t say train!”

“You interrupted!”

“I—” Bucky didn’t need Steve’s particular brand of pedantry, so he shrugged. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah. Well. Sort of.”

He raised a brow. “Sort of?”

“She, well, first of all, these gross dudes were hitting on her? On the train? Saying real shitty shit, you know?”

Bucky could imagine—Patsy was a pretty girl. “Uh-huh.”

“So I told them to knock it off.”

“Uh…huh.” He frowned. “Is that why your nose looks like a grapefruit?”

Steve scowled, touching his honker, which had swelled to twice its usual size. “Uh…”

“Steve!”

“It was fine! We, you know. Ran away.”

“After you got punched in the face.”

“…yeah. But Peggy hit him in the nuts!”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky said, gaining a modicum of respect for Patsy. Peggy. Whatever.

"I don't need it from you, too," he snapped. "Anyway. It was fine like I said. We ran out, and they didn't follow us. And then we uh, we got lunch, actually."

“Like a date?” Bucky asked on an exhale.

“What? No,” Steve said, looking down, so his hair fell in front of his face, a patented Steve-Rogers-is-insecure move that drove Bucky fucking crazy. Made him want to reach over and push the curtain back so he could _see_ Steve when he was talking. Which was a total mom-move, so he kept his hands to himself.

“Then what was it?”

“Just, you know. Lunch.”

“Ah.”

“But she paid. And then I walked her home.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Shut up. She kissed me.”

Bucky's lungs seized around the smoke he'd just inhaled, and he started coughing—a nasty, rasping barb which fucking hurt. Steve reached over to pound him on the back as his eyes watered, and he fought to recover. "Fuck," he croaked after a moment.

“You okay?”

“Fuckin’ ditch weed,” he muttered, another rough cough escaping, ending with a gag before he looked up to find Steve staring at him expectantly. The expression held weight—like Bucky was supposed to have something profound to say about Steve’s first kiss. Which was annoying, because it wasn’t like Steve had thrown _him_ a party the first time he’d stuck his tongue down some girl’s throat. “Uh, cool?”

Steve’s face darkened, which Bucky should have seen coming, being as he had a fuse so short it would make Wile E. Coyote blush. “Yeah,” he said. “It _was_ cool, actually.”

Bucky resisted the urge to roll his eyes, making him a prince among men, or so he figured. “I mean, sorry? Do you want me to jump up and down? It’s awesome, or whatever. I’m glad it happened for you. I just don’t know what you want me to say—”

“You don’t want to know the details?”

The very idea of knowing the details made Bucky’s intestines convulse, heat creeping up the back of his neck as goosebumps rose on his skin. Which, alright, this pot sucked. He was gonna have to give his uncle shit about it next time he saw him. “Like, I guess?” He lied out of self-preservation, not wanting to provoke another Steve lecture.

“Well, like, it was like, we were standing outside her building? And she just leans in and _kisses_ me. Out of nowhere. Twice!”

“Wow.”

“Is uh…is it always so…uh…wet?”

Bucky nearly choked. Coughed out a cloud of smoke and drew in a ragged breath. “What?”

“I don’t know! It was, I mean, I _liked_ it. It was just…”

“Dude. It’s a mouth. Like, mouths are wet, yeah?”

“I guess,” Steve sighed. “Also, I didn’t know what to do with my hands?”

God, Bucky didn’t want to be having this conversation. “Uh. Well, like. You can put them on her waist? Or her arms, or whatever? But don’t grab her boobs right away?”

“Bucky!”

“What! You gotta y’know…work up to that. If you’re like, careful—”

“I didn’t!” Steve’s cheeks were bright red. “I _wouldn’t_.”

“ _Eventually_ you might.”

“I’m not…whatever. Never mind. It’s…she wants to go out on a date.”

“Oh.”

“So I said we’d go Friday.”

“Cool,” Bucky replied, then took another drag of the spliff, holding onto the smoke for as long as he could so he didn’t have to deal with his annoyance at the entire situation. What was extra annoying was that he couldn’t quite put a finger on _why_ he was annoyed. Maybe it was because Steve was usually such a shit about _Bucky’s_ dates, but now he was expected to be like…rah-rah-sis-boom-bah in return? That was probably it—hypocritical behavior from Steve would piss anyone off.

“It…” Steve shrugged. “I’m nervous about it.”

"Why?" he asked, and that really had been the last good drag of the spliff without needing tweezers, so he flicked the joint off the fire escape, watching as it fell. "She obviously likes you." Even if Bucky kind of wondered why, considering Steve hadn't exactly come on strong, personality-wise, at the party. Which led him to believe that maybe she had an ulterior motive or something? He wasn't sure what that motive might be, and he sure as hell wasn't going to say anything to Steve until he'd figured it out, but it made him wonder. Worry a little, too.

“Yeah, but…” Steve kicked his sneakered toe against the rail, folding in on himself. “It’s not like I can _pay_ for shit.”

Treading lightly over the well-worn, touchy territory, Bucky pushed a hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance. “You don’t have to do expensive shit to have a good time. Take her to the park or something.”

Steve frowned. “That’s cheap.”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “It’s romantic. Girls love romantic crap.”

Plus, yeah, it was cheap. Bucky wasn't about to agree with Steve, though, because the fact that Steve was poor and Bucky wasn't was an unspoken fact in their friendship. Neither of them had grasped their disparate circumstances in childhood, and now that they were old enough to notice the differences between them, Bucky was too polite, and Steve too embarrassed to bring it up.

It wasn't like Steve didn't get reminded that he was poor all the fucking time—like, the way he'd had to miss the class trip to Washington DC in eighth grade because Sarah couldn't afford the hotel fees. Or the fact that he was on the free lunch program. Or that he wore secondhand clothes. Or the sad state of the threadbare furniture that cluttered their apartment. Or the way Bucky was pretty sure he went hungry sometimes when he and his ma had to choose between groceries or keeping the lights on.

Bucky and his family did what they could, as subtly as they were able. Steve had a standing invitation to their house for dinner, and the Barneses had included Steve and his mother in their Thanksgiving plans ever since Steve's grandmother had passed. Both Steve and Sarah had too much pride to take charity, so helping them had to be couched in nonchalance, or random good fortune. Like, if Bucky bought Steve lunch, it was because he owed Steve for some long-forgotten debt. Or if Bucky picked up the movie tickets, it was because Steve had smuggled in the candy. They didn't discuss it, and they never kept score, so that life could continue on, unruffled, and Bucky could sleep better at night, knowing Steve had had enough to eat that day.

“It’s not romantic when it’s this hot outside,” Steve grumbled, never content unless he was poking holes in one of Bucky’s suggestions.

“So go around sunset,” he said. “It’ll be cooler then. You can come over here before to make sandwiches, or whatever. My ma got all this extra crap for her company picnic, and we’ve got a basket you can borrow.”

Steve considered the offer, chewing on his lip, no doubt having an argument with himself over how much of Bucky’s generosity was too much. “I…yeah,” he said finally. “That’d be good. But I can buy the stuff for the sandwiches…”

“Seriously, Steve,” he said, flapping his hand. “Ma got all this weird cheese, and nobody ate it. You can use that.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” He chanced a grin, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Besides, if she’s gonna kiss you again, you can’t bring your weird-ass liverwurst.”

“It’s _good_!" Steve protested because he had terrible taste in sandwich meats.

Bucky began to elucidate the reasons why it was _not_ good, and the two of them bickered their way through the evening good-naturedly. His mother got back with the twins around the same time his dad got home from work, so Steve stayed for dinner, then decided to stay the night. Mostly because he had a Mario title to defend, and because he wanted to talk about kissing a _lot_ more. Which was fine, even if Bucky was going to go crazy if he had to hear about Patsy Carter’s fucking perfume one more time.

They turned off the light around one in the morning, Bucky in his bed and Steve curled up on the air mattress his folks had bought for sleepovers a couple years prior. A solid investment, in his opinion.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, just as Bucky was nodding off, deep voice cutting through the darkness.

“Mmmwhat, Steve?”

“You know what I was just thinking?”

“Whazzat?”

“Life. Uh…finds a way.”

Bucky began to giggle, high from his second joint of the evening (surreptitiously smoked out the window around eleven) laughter rolling through him until there were tears on his cheeks and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he managed after a minute. “Steve!”

“What?” came Steve’s helpless little snort from the floor.

“That’s…dude, _you’re_ one big pile of shit.”

Any hope there might have been of regaining their composure was lost.

Oh well. Maturity was overrated.

 


	5. rubber band girl

**If I could learn to twang like a rubber band**  
**I’d be a rubber band girl**  
_-Kate Bush_

 

## 2005

 

Every step between the subway and the front stoop was both familiar and alien to Peggy. Same buildings, different storefronts. Same sidewalks, now better maintained. Same skyline from some angles, disconcertingly strange from others, with the addition of towering new buildings filled with modern convenience at a no-doubt immodest price.

There was one house she’d remembered well, and thought of fondly when she’d allowed herself to think of this place at all. A house which had boasted a verdant garden, flowers and plants in window boxes and planters overflowing onto a small patch of concrete, tended to by an older woman with long, grey hair that she kept in a tidy braid.

Gone, now. A motorcycle parked where there had once been mums, a grease stain marking the pavement. The house under new ownership.

Had the woman died? Flowers left to wither on the vine in the Brooklyn summer heat while their owner withered behind the glass of the living room windows? Or had it been a transfer of deed—the grey-haired woman retiring someplace warm. A place where flowers took root in the earth rather than window boxes.

Peggy hoped it was the latter.

Steve’s mother’s place—no, Steve and _Bucky’s_ place—wasn't far from the flower house, though the tenor of the neighborhood had changed dramatically in the intervening twelve years. Posher, though the fine architectural details had been smoothed out and sanded down, as if anything too interesting might be an affront to these wealthy new inhabitants. People who were marketing manager rich rather than stockbroker rich, living alongside those few holdouts, like Steve, who owned places purchased when the neighborhood wasn't so up-and-coming. She'd seen the same thing happen in London—the flat her mother had acquired during the divorce was now certainly worth three times what she'd paid for it. Not that Peggy had been to see her in years, or given much of a shit about what Amanda was doing now. No warm, happy childhood over which to wax rhapsodic.

Turning the corner, she found herself face-to-face with a street that _did_ hold happy memories. The street she’d sprinted down countless times, blissful under the beating summer sun. God, that _building_. That shabby, squat brownstone with its second-floor flat boasting no amenities beyond its squeaky floors and sweltering, poorly ventilated rooms, including Steve's small bedroom, which had hardly been more than a closet.

A twin bed shoved beneath a window.

Sweat-dampened skin.

Three bodies, too young to realize what they had. Too naive to hold on fiercely.

Peggy shivered despite the warmth of the day. Stepped past the gate and rang the buzzer. A window scraped and squeaked above her before Steve’s head appeared.

"Hey!" he chirped. "Intercom's broken. Come on up."

“Sure,” Peggy replied, waiting until the door buzzed open, then stepping inside, where she was hit with a wave of nostalgia so powerful it nearly made her cry.

It _smelled_ the same. Some vaguely industrial cleaning agent mingling with the spices of home cooked meals and the mustiness of the tattered carpet rectangles that lined the stairs.

A door opened on the landing above, and Peggy took those stairs two at a time, blinking away her bright-eyed reminiscences. Shit, she’d probably overdressed. When she’d picked the sundress-that-wasn’t-sunny—black, with a blue rose pattern—she’d assumed dinner would be a bit of an occasion. But now, on her way up, she felt ridiculous. As if she were going to a garden party rather than a meal with two old friends.

Steve was waiting in a pair of black trousers and a button-down. Peggy exhaled.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied, stepping back to let her in. The foyer was the same, with its chipped table and looming coat rack. Peggy could hear Sarah Vaughan playing somewhere further inside, and it made her smile. Music had always been playing in the space this flat had carved out in her mind. Nice to hear some things hadn’t changed.

“I brought—” she said, holding out the bottle of wine she’d picked up in Manhattan, as Steve continued with, “hope you didn’t have trouble…oh, hey, thanks!”

“I didn’t forget where you lived,” she teased, passing over the wine.

"Sure, no, of course, you didn't. Ah, Bucky's in the—hey, Buck! Peggy's here!"

Peggy heard a noise. Footsteps.

Then, Bucky.

She had known he would be different. Had understood that he’d been to war. Lost an arm. That he wasn’t well. Despite all of that, her mind had proved incapable of imagining him as anything other than the gorgeous, otherworldly creature he’d been at sixteen, with a head full of gleaming hair, a rakish smile on his face, and charm oozing from every pimple-free pore.

This? This was not that boy. This was a wisp of that boy. A ghost, pale and drawn, with circles under his eyes and ill-fitting clothing swaddling his thin frame. He looked older than his twenty-eight years, with long, lank hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a hesitant, guarded expression on his solemn face.

He was still Bucky, though. There was no mistaking those blue eyes, nor the tentative smile he offered when she met his gaze.

She stepped forward to embrace him, arms wrapping tight around his slim waist as she gave him a squeeze. “Hello, you.”

“Hey,” he said, and she heard him swallow, arm hugging her in return, while his prosthetic hung by his side, claw poking out the sleeve of his hoodie.

“It’s so good to see you.” Breaking the embrace with a kiss to his cheek, she stepped back, giving him another once over. “Look at your _hair_!”

“Oh.” Bucky chuckled, caught out, then glanced at Steve. “Easier to let it grow than have him cut it.”

“Hey!” Steve protested.

“I like it,” she declared, though she wasn’t sure she did. “Gosh, this place looks different.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve agreed. “Lemme show you around.”

“I’ve got bread in the oven,” Bucky said, beggaring an excuse before taking the wine from Steve and heading back to the kitchen.

Steve proceeded to give her the dime store tour, leading her from room to room and pointing out what they’d changed over the years. They started in the living room, where the updates were minimal—they’d retained a fair bit of the furniture that had been in place when Steve and his mother had been the occupants, beaten down by another decade of wear. The differences were mostly cosmetic: a newer television sat atop the old console, with a video game system on the floor below. A small weight bench pushed into one corner, piled high with paperwork, barbells dusty and forgotten. (“Bucky’s,” Steve explained.) The art on the walls was new as well, most of it Steve’s own, he told her with some shy pride.

As they moved through the flat, Peggy saw more significant changes. Steve's old bedroom had indeed been converted into a guest suite, his collage of band posters replaced with a few simple prints, his bedspread changed out for an everyday, blue quilt. The dining room had a new (secondhand) table, while the bathroom had received a paint and tile job, along with a much-improved shower curtain. Peggy marveled at how clean that particular room was, considering neither Steve nor Bucky had been terribly fastidious about tidiness when she'd known them.

But then, people did have a tendency toward growing up.

The master bedroom had undergone the biggest transformation of all. During the summer she’d spent in America, Peggy had only peeked into it once or twice, but she remembered that Sarah’d had a double bed, with decor that looked as if a Laura Ashley catalog had vomited its contents onto everything from the bedspread to the lampshades—relics of Steve’s grandmother. Now? The bedroom was an oasis: pale, grey walls adorned with more of Steve’s artwork, alongside a massive bed piled high with soft pillows and blankets. Four mismatched bookshelves lined one wall, while the other held a makeshift dresser made of fabric bins and what she recognized as Ikea shelving.

“This is different,” she said, gesturing.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged. “When ma died, I kinda…sleeping in her room how it was felt wrong, you know? And with Buck moving in, it made sense to get a bigger bed. So we splurged on a king-size, which barely fits in here, but, it’s not like we do anything but sleep.”

Sleep, sure. Peggy smiled. “It looks marvelous. Are these yours?” She indicated the trio of canvases on the wall above the bed, which were abstract but vaguely anatomical—a human form cast in shadow and light.

“Oh, yeah. Those were part of my senior showcase.”

“They’re wonderful.”

“They’re okay,” he shrugged. “The model helped.”

Looking closer, Peggy realized. “Bucky?”

“Yeah. It was right after he uh…well, not _right_ after. But he hadn’t been home all that long. Took some convincing, but—” he shrugged, pushing a hand through his hair. Peggy could only imagine how that conversation had gone—Bucky was a sucker for Steve, and though Steve would likely deny it, he’d always been able to talk Bucky into any scheme, without much concern as to whether or not it was a _smart_ thing to do.

“You’re so talented,” she said. “Not that my opinion holds much water—I’m a lousy art critic.”

Steve’s shoulders pulled in on themselves in a manner that wasn’t so dissimilar to the way he’d wilted under compliments at sixteen. “Uh, thanks.”

“Have you got a portfolio?” That had been a question buzzing in her brain ever since he had mentioned his occasional freelance work. Emphasis on the _free_.

“Uh, not one I’ve updated in a while. Why?”

“We’re always looking for—”

Bucky interrupted them, coming to the bedroom door with a glass of wine. “Hey,” he said. “Figured you’d want this.”

Peggy smiled and took it. “You read my mind.”

“Yours is in the kitchen,” he said to Steve, along with a pointed, “near the stuff for setting the table.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Steve smirked, giving him a salute, then turning to Peggy. “You see how subtle he is?”

“Effortless. Shall I help?”

“No,” said Bucky.

“Sure,” said Steve, putting them at an impasse. Peggy watched some silent communique pass back and forth between them. A raised eyebrow. A quirked lip. A staring contest and an eventual concession from Steve.

"Come keep me company while I do it, then," he said.

They went to the kitchen, which hadn’t changed at all, save for a counter, a newer microwave and a magnetic knife rack mounted above the stove. Steve pulled plates from a cabinet, while Bucky went to stir something in a pot. Peggy, meanwhile, leaned against the wall to stay out of their way, all the while watching Bucky work, marveling at the dexterity he had in the kitchen. Prosthetic pinching and grabbing, moving things around with ease. Which, she realized with no small amount of shame, was a stupid thing to be shocked by. Bucky had lost an arm, not himself. Plenty of people survived without arms, or legs, or any number of other appendages. She’d do well to remember that.

“Steve and I were just talking about his work,” she said, making conversation to cover her private embarrassment.

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky said, back to her as he opened the oven to check on something that smelled glorious. “You saw the triptych?”

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

“That’s what it is.”

Smart enough to know when she was being teased, Peggy smiled. “Forgive me, Mr. Diderot.”

“Hah,” Steve smirked.

“What?” said Bucky.

“Nevermind. I only meant that it’s wonderful.”

“Eh,” Bucky shrugged. “He had a lousy model.” That got his ass swatted by a passing Steve. “What! I was!”

“I thought you were rather fetching,” Peggy said, not meaning anything by it. “Anyhow, it started me thinking.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Steve—” Who had just grabbed a fistful of napkins, taking them to the table. “—was saying that he does work for bands sometimes. Show posters, things like that.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, tossing his head toward the fridge. “That’s all his shit.”

The so-called ‘shit’ was a collection of garish, neon-colored flyers advertising various and sundry shows around the city. Peggy had them shoved at her every time she attended a concert, and most of them were awful, but Steve’s work showed a certain flair.

“He did the posters in the living room, too,” Bucky continued, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “The good ones.”

“Buck—“ Steve said, having returned from his napkin excursion.

"Did he?" Peggy said before anyone could get self-deprecating. "Those caught my eye as well."

“Cheapskates can pay for a print run but can’t pay him for the design,” Bucky grumbled.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve repeated. “I don’t do it for the money.”

“Yeah, well, you should.”

Peggy got the sense that this was a well-worn argument, grooved by repeated treads down the same old path over the years, each of them playing the role they were meant to play in the squabble.

“I only mention it because,” she said, navigating stormy seas, “Rebirth is always looking for freelancers. _Paid_ freelancers. We don’t have the staff to keep up with everything, so we hire out. If you want to send me your portfolio, I could pass it along to my mate in marketing.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Bucky said. “He’ll do it.”

Steve flashed a peevish look in Bucky’s direction, stopping in the middle of the kitchen with salt and pepper shakers in his hands. “Thanks, pal. I can answer her myself.”

“He’ll do it,” Bucky repeated, smile catching the corners of his mouth. “Don’t let him pull this shit where he acts like his stuff isn’t good enough. Bug him about it.”

“I absolutely will,” she agreed. “Though it’s not one hundred percent my call—I have _some_ sway, but I don’t make the final decision. Still, I’ll put in a good word.”

Bucky cocked a brow, tossing a kitchen towel over his shoulder. “That your way of saying you’re a big shot now?”

Peggy demurred, taking a sip of wine. “Plenty of bigger shots than me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Frank,” Steve said, the nickname slipping out with ease.

“Christ,” she laughed. “I haven’t thought about Frank in years.”

Another silent conversation passed between Bucky and Steve before Steve shrugged. "That makes one of us. I'm uh…you want some more wine?"

“Yeah, go sit down, Peggy,” Bucky said.

Peggy sat at the small dining table, feeling as if she'd put her foot in it, though neither Steve nor Bucky pushed the topic further as they began bringing out dishes of delicious smelling food. There was a pork tenderloin, roasted to perfection, alongside garlic mashed potatoes and a salad of wafer-thin sliced beets with shredded brussels sprouts.

“Christ,” she marveled after her first bite. “I _hate_ sprouts, but this might make a convert of me.”

“Bucky made the dressing, too,” Steve said, so it seemed it was his turn to be proud of his partner.

“Got nothin’ better to do,” Bucky said, sticking a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

“I’d say send me the recipe, but I can’t cook,” Peggy offered.

“He doesn’t use recipes,” Steve went on. “He’ll start with one, sometimes. But then he does his own thing.”

“You work at a grocery store,” Bucky muttered. “I had to get creative, is all.”

“Well, cheers to the chef,” Peggy said, raising her glass.

“Cheers,” Steve agreed.

Bucky allowed the toast, though he took a long, gulping swallow of his wine once it was through. That necessitated Steve re-filling his glass, so he topped off Peggy at the same time. Soon enough, that first bottle was gone, and another, sweeter, cheaper variety was opened, the conversation coming easier with every sip. Steve and Bucky asked after Sharon ("lives in Washington DC now, works for the government"), while Peggy asked after Bucky's sisters ("Becca's in Chicago; Freddie's at grad school in Oregon"). Time passed in a blur as they slipped back into the smooth patois they'd once shared. Not identical, but comfortable.

Yet, even in their growing comfort with her, there were changes. Subtle differences that marked them as the men they were now rather than the boys she'd known. Steve still ate quickly, as though he didn't know where his next meal was coming from—left hand guarding his plate as if he might have to defend himself from someone stealing his lunch. Only now, that hand was loose, there out of habit more than necessity. His shoulders were squared, his back un-hunched, and there was a bright, easy confidence on his smiling face. He'd come into his own, just as she'd always hoped he would, though she had liked him just as much when he was small and stammering, reluctant to look her in the eye. The difference was that perhaps he liked _himself_ now.

Bucky, on the other hand, had always eaten meals at a leisurely pace. Because he had been a well-liked kid, finding ways to preen and pose while picking at his food, which was always the same rubbish preferred by teenaged boys—mountains of greasy chips, burgers, nachos, anything he could have deep-fried and served to him on a platter, really. He’d had a habit of ordering too much, eating a tiny portion, then shoving the leftovers at Steve in an act of unnamed charity. In fact, Bucky’s generosity with Steve had been one of the first things to give Peggy insight into his true character, rather than the personality she’d projected onto him by virtue of his prettiness.

Now, though, he pecked and picked at his food with an apathetic avoidance rather than altruism, as if the meal only half-interested him. When he did take a bite, he seemed to enjoy it, but he didn’t eat nearly enough. Anyone who looked at him could see that.

“I don’t think I’ve been fed so well since arriving,” Peggy said as dinner wound to a close, the three of them leaning back against their chairs.

“Maybe you should learn to cook,” Steve teased.

“I’ll have you know, I make a mean sandwich,” she said, knocking her foot against his, then feeling rather stupid for having done it.

Steve glanced at Bucky. “I’ll clean up.”

“I’ll help,” Peggy offered, only to have them both yelp “no!” That started her laughing, and she held up her hands. “Alright, alright.”

“You’re a guest,” Bucky emphasized.

“Kind of,” Steve agreed.

“Kind of,” Bucky scoffed. “What would you call it?”

“Uh…” Steve shrugged. “Guest, yeah. But like—”

Whatever he had been about to say in clarification was lost when Bucky reached for his plate. Something in the way he moved caused a sharp inhale, his arm spasming as he stood. “ _Fuck_ ,” he barked.

Steve was up in an instant, rushing to Bucky’s side and taking his hand. “Where?” he asked, with the knowing cadence of someone who had done this many times before.

“Shoulder,” Bucky said, jerking his arm back with another hiss. “Steve, stop. It’s fine.”

“Buck—“

“It’s _fine_ ,” he repeated, turning on his heel to stalk into the kitchen, taking every bit of oxygen in the room along with him.

Peggy sat, frozen, feeling as though she’d witnessed something that hadn’t been meant for her. Something intimate and awful. “Is he alright?” she asked, voice small.

“It’s ah, yeah.” Steve cleared his throat, offering her a tight smile. “He’s hurting a lot, these days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, no, _I’m_ sorry. He’s not himself when—” Shaking his head, he reached for her plate.

“It’s not my business,” she said, despite how very much she wished to understand. “Perhaps I ought to go?”

“No!” Steve’s eyes went wide. “He ah, just, gimme a second? Please don’t go. It’ll be fine.”

Peggy acquiesced, and Steve disappeared into the kitchen with their plates. Seconds later, low voices floated out, murmured words unintelligible over the music still piping through the speakers. Their tones, though, were unmistakable—Bucky’s sullen and hurting, Steve’s conciliatory and smooth.

This was too much. Too private. Peggy rose to her feet, folding her napkin and berating herself for having come at all. Their lives were so different from hers now; she’d been a fool to think they could so easily capture their old dynamic.

Pushing away from the table, she went to fetch her bag, which was when Steve emerged from the kitchen with a tense, anxious look on his face.

“It’s later than I thought,” she said, apology tripping across her tongue. “I ought to…please tell Bucky I’m sorry. It’s—”

“Right. Sure,” Steve said, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, too.”

Peggy avoided looking at the dessert plates in his hands as she plastered a smile on her face. “Nonsense. It was lovely to see you both. And I’ll call you—we’ll go to a show or something. Oh, and your portfolio!”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “We’ll do that. I um, I can walk you—”

“I’m perfectly capable of showing myself out,” she said, a bit too bright, giving him a ridiculous little wave. “Please tell Bucky I said goodnight.”

“I will. And—”

“Honestly, Steve, if you apologize again, I’ll scream.”

A small smile crossed his face. “Goodnight, then. Frank.”

“Goodnight.”

Peggy took her leave. Ten quick steps to the front door, down the stairs and onto the street, where she calmed her shaking nerves by lighting a cigarette, then walking in the direction of the subway.

Half a block later, she heard a voice calling out her name. Bucky’s voice. Surprised, she turned to find him jogging to catch up with her, a wild look in his eyes and a plastic container in his hand.

“Wait, Peg,” he said, though she’d already stopped. He held out the container like a peace offering when he reached her, a sheepish smile on his face. “It’s uh. You should take a piece. It’s a chocolate tart.”

Peggy’s heart splintered, and she took it from him. “Bucky…”

“Don’t take it out on Steve. My…how I am, that’s not his fault.”

“I’m not taking it out,” she said, and then they were talking over one another, words muddled along with their meanings.

“He’s really lonely,” Bucky blurted, voice rising above the din of awkwardness. “He’s not—” he looked down, shaking his head. “Please don’t go away again?”

Peggy inhaled. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s…shit, sorry,” he said. “Can I bum one?”

“What?”

“A smoke.”

“I…yes, of course,” she said, keeping her cigarette between her lips as she reached into her bag, shaking another out and passing it to Bucky, along with her lighter.

“Don’t tell Steve I’m doing this,” he mumbled, placing the cigarette between his teeth, then sparking the end.

“He’ll smell it on you.”

“I’ll tell him it was yours. C’mon, lemme walk you to the train.”

“Honestly, Bucky, I’m capable—”

“Humor me, Maggie.”

The nickname caught her so off-guard that she allowed Bucky to fall in step with her, the two of them walking side-by-side. “Twat. That’s a low blow.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t changed that much,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke while bumping her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“The fact that I can’t give you the benefit of the doubt when it comes to him.”

Peggy frowned, looking over to find him looking back without malice. Without judgment. "It's complicated."

“You’re the one who left, kid,” he said. “I’m the one who stayed.”

“I was _sixteen_. My mother—”

"Yeah, I know. The whole thing was lousy. But you were supposed to come back. Stay in touch." Another drag and he shook his head, strands of dull hair slipping from his ponytail. "Sorry. Look, I'm not blaming you. I'm just saying that if you're back, you know, _be_ back.”

“I’m back,” she said softly. “But I don’t know what it is you’re asking me to do.”

“Just. Steve needs a friend. He works all the time, and he tries not to let me see that he’s tired. I know I’m not easy to live with, and I’m not stupid about the fact that he’s…” Bucky cast his eyes to the sky and made a strangled, unhappy noise. “Christ. Look. If you meant that shit about showing his stuff to the people at your label, do that. And if you want to hang out with him, hang out with him.”

“I have every intention—”

“Great. That’s all I’m asking.”

“What about you?”

Bucky snorted. “What about me?”

“I can’t spend time with you, as well?”

“I’m—” Bucky gave her a rueful smile, shaking his head. Held the cigarette in his mouth so he could reach out his hand to stop her. Turn her to face him there on that oh-so-commonplace corner. “Shit, Maggie, I dunno. But I’m glad you’re home.”

 

## 1993

 

Liking Steve shouldn’t have been some revolutionary thing. Peggy had liked boys before. Priggish boys who went to the all-male counterpart of her former school. Town boys who attended the local comp, good for a snog on the nights she and her mates snuck out of their beds and through a hole in the fence. University boys that lived up the road from her parents’ house in London, with their strong drinks and smokes, residing in hovels that might charitably be termed flats.

Peggy had liked any number of these boys. But not the same way she liked Steve.

Steve, with his curtain of messy blond hair and his smile that was far sweeter than it had any right to be. Steve, with his politics and his passions—his shy, sullen facade a mask for the curious, intelligent, witty boy beneath. Steve was funny and infuriating in equal measure, able to raise her hackles one moment and render her helpless with laughter the next.

They had been on four dates if one counted the bloody-nose diner, which Peggy did. Outside of those official dates, they'd also spoken on the phone most evenings, discussing essential matters late into the night, because Steve's mother worked until the wee hours of the morning, and Peggy could use her uncle's office line for the calls. She found herself falling further for him with each conversation. Each hug. Each kiss. This was a problem, considering her mother's plans thus far didn't appear to involve allowing her to stay in New York.

No matter. She would figure it out. Because the one thing she knew for sure was that she wasn't going back to England. Not when all that waited for her was a broken marriage and a shattered family.

Fuck them.

For now, she had Steve. The rest of it was a problem for another day. After all, it was only just June. June, in New York City, where she was going on her fifth date with her not-quite-boyfriend but not-quite-not-boyfriend, either. She’d never had a boyfriend before. Wasn’t sure if she was sold on the idea, but if it was going to be anyone, it was going to be Steve.

Their fifth date was another diner date. Steve had proposed it two days earlier, surprising Peggy with the idea of going someplace that might cost more than a few dollars. She wasn't oblivious to the fact that their previous outings had been to things that were either free or had negligible admission fees. Because Steve, Peggy was coming to discover, didn't have any money. Which didn't matter to her in the slightest—her family had plenty of money to go around, but having it didn't change the fact that they were shitty, miserable people. Money didn't matter much to her, although that was easy to say when you had enough of it. For Steve, in his ratty cardigans and holey jeans, money mattered a great deal, and there was an element of pride in it, Peggy supposed. So while she'd always found the idea of the bloke paying for dates reductive and patriarchal, she'd softened her stance with Steve.

When she arrived at the diner at half past seven, Steve was waiting outside in an outfit that made her neck prickle with sweat. She had never seen him in anything less than two sweaters and a t-shirt, making her wonder if it was insecurity, or merely him adhering religiously to his Cobain aesthetic. For her part, she was considerably cooler in a dress of Sharon’s that was a mite on the short side, as she was taller than her cousin. Considering the temperature, though, her suitcase full of fishnets and long sleeves was proving useless. Suffering for fashion was all well and good, but there was a fucking limit.

“Hey,” Steve said, pushing away from the wall.

Peggy flicked her cigarette to the ground, leaning down to kiss him when she got close. It was the first time she’d felt bold enough to greet him with a kiss, and the look on his face when she pulled away told her it had been the right move.

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry, were you waiting long?”

“No,” he said, and she didn’t miss the way his eyes ever-so-briefly darted to her breasts. Experience had proven that Steve was a gentleman—he never leered or lingered—but it _was_ a tight dress.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s…yeah,” he said, licking his lips, then holding the door for her. “How’s uh, how’s your week been?”

“Oh, fine,” she said, dancing away from the long-distance fight she’d had with her mum two days prior, telling him instead about the street fair she’d gone to with Sharon the afternoon before.

Steve kept up a steady stream of questions about that as they settled into a booth, conversation coming easily now he was more comfortable in her presence. Peggy knew she’d intimidated him the first few time they’d spoken, and though she found the stammering sweet at first, she was glad he’d moved past it. There would have been no point in dating him if he’d gone on treating her like some exotic animal.

(Which, alright, she _occasionally_ enjoyed the power she held over the lecherous old farts of the world by being halfway pretty with a decent rack, but she wasn’t looking to be regularly deified.)

“So did you…” Steve trailed off as the waitress approached. “Hey, Sonya.”

“Hi, honey,” said (presumably) Sonya, a thickset middle-aged woman with a head of platinum blonde curls. “How’s your ma?”

Seemed Steve was a regular here—interesting that he’d chosen to bring her around people he knew. That had to bode well for their relationship.

“She’s good. Can I get a to-go for her when we’re done here? She’s on shift until midnight.”

“I’ll have ‘em wrap it up before I get your check. Pastrami on rye, right?”

“Right.”

“Gotcha. Now, what can I get for you and ah…your friend?”

Sonya gave Peggy a conspiratorial wink, as if the two of them were in on some secret. Peggy blinked, glancing at Steve, who was studying his menu with a furrowed brow. “Err, chocolate milkshake?”

“You don’t want real food?” Steve asked, looking up.

“Not particularly, no,” she said, taking the opportunity to knock her boot against his sneakered toes. “But if I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Chocolate milkshake,” Sonya said, scribbling it on her pad. “And you, honey? Tuna melt?”

“Uh.” Steve hesitated, glancing at Peggy. Her mouth, specifically, cheeks going pink. “N-no. Just a burger. With um. No. No onions.”

Sonya raised a brow; Peggy didn’t bother to hide her smile, sticking her tongue out at Steve before mouthing, “we’ll see.”

“One chocolate milkshake, one burger, hold the onions,” Sonya reiterated. “Fries?”

Steve, who had gone the color of an overripe tomato, closed his menu and shook his head.

“Yes,” Peggy corrected. “Please.”

“Fries, then,” Sonya said, flipping her notebook shut, then walking away.

“You said—” Steve protested.

“I said I didn’t want _real_ food. Chips aren’t real food. And besides, they’re yours. I just want ah…two.”

“Oh. So you’re a lousy thief, huh?”

“Might be,” she grinned. “Sounds like your mum’s working late?”

“Huh?”

“You said she wasn’t off until midnight.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, she’s like…she doesn’t get home until one, though. Depends on the trains.”

“I remember.” Peggy leaned forward. “So, your flat’ll be empty?”

Steve, a beacon of intelligence, picked up her meaning in an instant, coughing and letting out a surprised (plus slightly terrified) laugh. “Uh. It is. Yes. I mean. Sure. If you want—”

“That’s so _interesting_ ," she chirped, tapping her toe against his again, sliding forward, so her bum was barely on the seat.

"It's." Steve swallowed. "Would, um. Maybe sometime. Maybe you'd wanna see it sometime? When it's empty?"

The come-on was charming in its charmlessness, so Peggy smiled. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

That one got a genuine laugh. “Uh. You would be the first.”

“Hmm,” she said, knocking her knee against his, then sitting back. “Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“As snogging propositions go, sure.”

“Oh, I wasn’t proposing—”

“Have you got a VCR?”

“Uh, what?”

“In your empty flat. Where your mum won’t be until one in the morning. Have you got a VCR?”

“I. Yes.”

“And have you got any films?”

“We. Well. Bucky got me a screener version of this movie about a girl who has a horse, from his job. And my ma got me _Hook_ for my birthday last year.”

“Hmm. What’s the horse film about?”

Steve told her—some convoluted period drama about horses who dove off platforms into tanks of water, as well as a blind girl—and the conversation went from there. Steve was still enraptured with _Jurassic Park_ , so she was once again subjected to endless retellings of his favorite scenes. Their food arrived whilst he was playing out (for the umpteenth time) the part of the film that involved a man on a toilet and a Tyrannosaurus rex. He was funny, at least, Peggy giggling as Sonya put the plate of chips down on the table.

Pleased with himself, he reached for one. Peggy did the same, popping the greasy deliciousness into her mouth with a grin.

“Not hungry, my ass,” he said, reaching for the ketchup.

“Yeuch,” she replied. “ _Savage_.”

“You don’t like ketchup?”

“No, it’s too sweet, and—”

“Hey, kids!” A voice came from near the door, the shout interrupting the anti-ketchup rant upon which she’d been embarking. Startled, she looked up to find Steve’s friend Bucky approaching with that same confidence and priggishness that had so bothered her the first time she’d met him—as if everyone in the world ought to be grateful for his presence.

The second impression he made was no better, sliding into Steve’s side of the booth to throw an arm around his skinny shoulders. “Fancy meeting you two here.”

Peggy straightened her spine, willing laser beams to shoot from her eyes. Of all the frustrating things to have happen on a date, Saint Bucky showing up topped the list.

“Oh, hey, Buck,” Steve said, quite happy to be interrupted.

Peggy took a long swallow of her milkshake before acknowledging the newcomer. “Bucky.”

Bucky turned his attention to her, pushing an insufferable hand through his insufferable hair, then looking her up and down. “Hey, uh…it’s Penny, right?”

It wasn’t.

“It’s Peggy, Buck,” Steve corrected, knocking Bucky’s arm off his shoulder, then giving him a shove. “Quit moochin’ my fries.”

“Aw, I’m starvin’ here, Stevie,” Bucky protested, both of them falling into a lazy Brooklyn accent she hadn’t noticed on Steve before.

“Yeah, but—” Steve laughed again, eyes cutting between Bucky and Peggy, floundering in unfamiliar depths. “We’re, like, on a date?”

“No shit?” Bucky grinned, looking her dead in the eye while reaching for another chip. “You coulda fooled me.”

“What does _that_ mean?” she said, patience wearing thin.

“I dunno,” he said, leaving a dangling thread of non-response which bothered her more than if he’d been outright rude.

Especially because he was chewing with his fucking mouth open.

“Forgive me, but there _are_ other tables,” she said, attempting and failing to keep her tone neutral.

“Are there?” Bucky asked with feigned, wide-eyed shock.

“I’m sure Sonya would be happy to bring you your own order of chips.”

“Peggy, it’s fine,” Steve said placatingly, which riled her up further.

“Is it?” For all that Steve was impassioned about some things, it seemed sending his friend away was a bridge too far.

"Je-suuuuus," Bucky said, mock-offended with wide-eyes, both hands held before him as if warding her off. "Touchy, touchy, Penny. I can see when I'm not wanted."

“Bucky, come on. That’s not what she means.” Steve grabbed his hands, pulling them down, then turning to Peggy. “It’s not, right?”

It absolutely was. They were on a _date_.

She set her mouth in a thin line, counting to three in her head before offering Bucky another out. “Surely you’re meeting people?”

"Nah," Bucky gave her a lazy grin. "I was just walking by, and I saw you two. Figured I'd say hi, but I guess I didn't realize that was a federal offense."

“It’s not,” Steve said. “But, I mean. We’re on a date? Like I said?”

“Well, like, sorry?” Bucky turned to Steve with an obnoxiously simpering expression. “You guys didn’t _look_ like you were on a date, is all I mean.”

“Two people sitting in a booth,” Peggy muttered. “You’d think…”

“Yeah, but you weren’t, like, holding hands or anything?” Bucky offered, and if that wasn’t the _stupidest_ thing she'd ever heard. Mostly because of the way he'd said it—as if he were reasonable, and _she_ was the one overreacting.

“Perhaps we _might_ have been,” she said through gritted teeth, the hint so pointed it ought to have reached out and smacked Steve on the head.

“Sure, but like,” Bucky laughed. “You _wouldn’t_ , though?”

“What does that mean?” she snapped, as Steve gave a low, warning growl of, “Bucky…”

“I just mean, yanno, it’s cute that you’re, uh. Hanging out with Steve. But you’re not, like, _interested_ in him, right?”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaimed. “Shut up!”

“Excuse me for looking out for you, pal, but—”

“But what?” Peggy scowled.

“Well, it’s not like you’re serious?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“With Steve. I mean, you want something, right? Or you’re using him to—”

“Are you _mad_?”

“Oh, what?” he shot back. “C’mon, what’s your motive here, sweetheart?”

“My _motive_?” she laughed out loud. “You must be joking.”

“You must be joking,” he minced, imitating her accent and her tone, thereby raising her hackles to a level she hadn’t thought possible.

“You’re obnoxious,” she informed him.

“Yeah, well, you’re a snob.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I beg your paaaaardon,” he said, another impression, this one more sneering than the last.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said, nearly shouting.

“You guys!” Steve attempted.

“You’re a prat,” she continued, temper having flown the coop. “A smug-faced little—”

“I’m smug?” Bucky said, voice rising along with hers. “Look at _you_!”

“What about me?” she shouted. “I haven’t _done_ anything! You don’t even know me!”

“Oh, I know you,” he said. “Leastwise, I know girls like you don’t go for guys like Steve, so—”

“There it is,” she said, latching onto that small shred of insecurity. “You’re fucking _jealous_.”

“As if.”

“You are,” she grinned. “Poor old you—angry I like him better, hmm? Must be hard, sucking your own dick.”

“Shut up,” Bucky snarled.

“Especially when it’s so bloody small—”

“Peggy!” Steve yelped.

“Don’t stick up for him! He’s insulting you!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Aw, now look who’s on my side,” Bucky grinned. “Good choice, Steve. God, Sharon must be dying, having you for a cousin. Gotta say, I don’t see the family resemblance. She’s awesome, and you’re just a stuck up bi—”

That was when Peggy knocked her milkshake onto his lap. “Fuck off, you arrogant prick,” she said, scrambling her way out of the booth, then toward the door.

“Asshole!” Bucky yelped.

“Proudly!” she shouted, not bothering to look back. “Nice _fucking_ friend, Steve!” Feeling as though there was nothing more to stay, she stormed out the door.

It took marching for a block and getting a cigarette between her teeth before her nerves finally started to calm. Not long after that, she heard Steve calling her name, and despite her anger, she slowed enough for him to catch her.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, panting as he reached her side. “Peggy, I’m really sorry, he’s—”

“He’s a hateful shit.”

“Yeah, he’s—” Steve gripped her arm. “Sorry, just, like, I’m gonna have a fuckin’ asthma attack. Please stop walking so fast?”

Peggy stopped, turning to face him with a frown.

“He’s like…dumb,” Steve offered. “I don’t know why he did that.”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s not, but…well, he was acting like one,” Steve agreed. “I um, I don’t know why he was saying that stuff about you. I never said anything like that to him.”

“Swear it?” Part of her had worried Bucky’s accusations had been founded in something Steve might have confessed to him. “Because contrary to his opinion, I think you’re lovely, and you’re handsome, so of course I’d go for you—”

“I swear,” Steve said, cutting off her compliments before they could get too far, cheeks bright red. “And uh, I shoulda stood up for you faster…”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“He’s like…ugh.” Steve blew some hair from his eyes, looking at her with a hangdog expression. “I don’t know what crawled up his ass, but I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, though.” He tried a smile. “You didn’t get to finish your milkshake.”

“You didn’t get to eat your onion-free burger.”

“Nope.”

“Shame.” She shrugged, taking another drag of her cigarette, making up her mind to forgive him. He couldn’t help his friend being a twat, after all, and he _had_ come after her rather than staying with Bucky. “We’ll have to go back to your flat, I suppose. Order a pizza.”

“I…really?” Steve looked as though Christmas had come early.

“Mmmhmm. Which isn’t to say you’re entirely off my shit list, but…” Shrugging, she bit her lip then looked to the sky.

“What?”

“It’s only that I think I might _die_ if I don’t see your horse movie tonight.”

That settled that.

They ended up cuddling on the lumpy couch in Steve’s mum’s flat, a bowl of microwave popcorn on the coffee table, with the world’s oddest sporting film on the telly.

Unmoved by the plot, they started kissing halfway through, and though Steve’s hands stayed respectfully chaste for the most part, there was one moment when he accidentally grazed her breast. Peggy let him get away with it.

Because he was awfully cute when he blushed.

Not interested—pah!


	6. the fallacies of morning

**We pretend no-one can find** **  
****The fallacies of morning rose** **  
** _-Portishead_

 

## 2005

 

Steve Rogers with a metaphorical racing bit between his teeth was a sight to behold. Peggy’s offer to put his portfolio in front of Rebirth’s cadre of graphic designers had spurred Steve to action the likes of which Bucky hadn’t seen since his first year out of college. The year when they’d been a bit more optimistic. When Sarah had still been around.

The energy Steve had for the project was awesome. Not _living_ with it, obviously—Steve was a pill at the best of times, so when he was truly amped up about something he could be downright infuriating—as half-finished sketches crowded onto every available surface of the apartment. But being around him when he was sparked up, firing on all cylinders? That was a thing of beauty. Reminded Bucky of how and when and why he’d fallen in love with Steve in the first place; how he’d been falling since. That funny, squiggly feeling down low in his belly, the same one he’d had since the day Steve Rogers looked up at him with big, blue eyes and Bucky realized there was something between them.

Not that he’d known it back then. Not that he’d allowed himself to acknowledge it, anyway, suppressing and compressing those all-encompassing feelings into a tiny box he kept deep down in his soul until the day everything got vomited out in one horrific, misplaced show of emotion.

But that was then, and this was now.

Steve was working around the clock, polishing old pieces, creating new ones—a few mock-up album covers for current Rebirth artists, as well as some originals he’d been noodling with for months—the portfolio taking shape in a matter of days.

That was how Bucky found him upon arriving home from therapy on the Tuesday after the dinner-not-date with Peggy. He was feeling pretty proud of himself, as he’d actually attended his appointment. Which, in his opinion, was nothing short of miraculous. Granted, he’d been forced to leave the house under duress—Steve had the day off work and would have given Bucky a boatload of weary sighs if he’d tried to get out of going—but he could have gone to the park instead. He _really_ could have! Except it was god damn hot outside, with the air-conditioned therapist’s office in Brooklyn Heights more appealing than the great outdoors. So he’d reluctantly attended, sat on her uncomfortable chair, and grunted out monosyllabic answers to her questions until she released him.

Beat getting a sunburn.

Not by _much_ , but by enough.

“Hey,” he greeted as he came through the front door, sweat sliding down his forehead. New York was such a fucking beast in summer, every bit of him damp and sticky with perspiration, not to mention the city grit he’d picked up on the walk home. He needed a fucking shower.

“Hey!” Steve called. “Buck, come look at this!”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, stripping off his shirt as he went. Who needed clothes when it was that hot, outside or in? He took off his prosthetic, too—the strap had been chafing the hell out of him for an hour now, and it wasn’t like Steve cared. That was the thing about being at home: no matter how annoying Steve got, Bucky could always count on him to give not a single shit about however he chose to present himself on a given day.

Steve was sitting at their little dining table, twenty or so pieces of yellowed paper arrayed in front of him. “Look!”

“Oh shit,” Bucky laughed, upon realizing what they were. “Where the hell’d you dig them up?”

"I was looking for a sketchbook from my figure drawing class, and I found them in a box at the top of the hall closet. Ma musta stuck 'em up there before she got sick."

“Wow,” Bucky said, pulling a chair around to Steve’s left side. He sat, lifting his hand and placing it against the back of Steve’s neck, just because, feeling some stiffness ebb when he gave it a rub. Steve was always tense—had always _been_ tense—the weight of the world on his shoulders thanks to a childhood full of loss and an adulthood full of, well, Bucky. Still, he always invited the touch. Leaned into Bucky every time, like the lightning in one of those plasma globes.

The papers on the table were pure nostalgia, a showcase of Steve's brief foray into the world of comic book art during the fall of their Junior year. The comics featured a hero named Jack Flash, a baseball-playing high school student who happened to have an alter-ego as a crime-fighting badass. Jack's love interest was fellow student Frankie Carver, a buxom, British bombshell who went with Jack on all of his adventures and sometimes made out with him in a way that wouldn't pass morality codes.

Teenaged Steve hadn’t been subtle.

Nor, Bucky realized as he skimmed the pages, had he been much of a writer. The plots were wafer thin, the bad guys always generic evil aliens or wise-cracking mobsters. The art, though? The art had been accomplished; advanced for his age. Despite Bucky's lack of knowledge when it came to technique, he knew Steve was skilled. And while his work had improved over the years, his rough edges sanded down, there was obvious talent on those old pages.

Also, yeah, Jack Flash looked a _lot_ like Bucky, even if he ran track instead of playing baseball. But shit, the comics had come the semester after their summer with Peggy, so when it came to wish-fulfillment, Steve had worn his heart on his sleeve. Bucky hadn’t been much better—he’d missed Peggy, too, and he’d egged Steve on at the time, the two of them coming up with increasingly outlandish ideas for what Jack and Frankie could do. (Some of which were more pornographic than others, but those comics hadn’t made the cut when it came to what Steve had saved.)

Funny, though, to look at the comics with the benefit of hindsight. Steve had never cast himself in the story, which at the time hadn't seemed a big deal to Bucky and his big head, but had spoken to Steve's insecurities and fears when it came to the tenuous fragility of their new relationship. Peggy's absence left them with a lot of questions about where they stood with one another, making those first few months without her awkward and strained at times until they'd worked out what it meant to be _them_. Which wasn’t to say things had been smooth sailing since, but they understood one another. They worked.

“Pretty awful, huh?” Steve said with a half-chuckle.

Bucky hummed, focusing on one page in particular, on which Frankie and Jack had been so overwhelmed by their prowess in defeating some evil-doer that they’d fallen into a groping, ridiculous kiss. “Dunno, pal. I’d say they hold up.”

“Bullshit,” Steve grinned. “They’re—“

"They're pretty good for a sixteen-year-old," he said, giving Steve's neck a squeeze. "You gonna show 'em to Peggy?"

"Buck—" There was a pink tinge in his cheeks at the very idea. "I could hardly bring myself to show 'em to _you_.”

"Aw, c'mon. She'd get a kick out of it. I mean, the disproportionate size of her—"

“Bucky.”

"What!" he said. "C'mon. They were big, but not _that_ big.”

“You’re disgusting.”

"Yeah, well," he grinned, nudging him. "You drew 'em."

“Shut up.”

“You called her yet?”

“I told you, I wanna get everything ready.”

“S’not what I asked.”

Steve pressed his lips together. “She called me, actually. Wanted to know if we want to meet her in the city sometime next week.”

“Huh.” Bucky shrugged, twisting a strand of Steve’s hair around his finger. “You should go.”

“So should you.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t.

“Mmm,” Steve shrugged. “How’s Annie?”

“Fine.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“That’s therapist-patient privilege, nosy.”

“I’m wounded, Buck. You smell like shit, by the way.”

“It’s hot outside.”

“It’s hot in here.”

They’d had this argument before. Sometimes Bucky wondered if true love was just a series of squabbles, circling endlessly around the same tired points until you died. “And yet you don’t see me telling you how bad _you_ smell.”

“Spousal privilege.”

“Not married.”

Steve turned his head to catch Bucky in a brief kiss. “Close enough for consequences, dick. You wanna take a shower?”

“Thought you’d never ask, punk.”

Leaving the comics scattered on the table, Bucky chased him to the tiny bathroom, where Steve got the water going while Bucky undressed in the hallway, mostly because there wasn’t room for both of them in the two square feet between the toilet and the tub. It was easier to shuck off his pants outside, kicking them down the hallway, then stepping into the steamy room, where Steve was already under the tepid spray.

Bucky pulled back the curtain and looked down with a smirk; some great shock—Steve was already palming his prick. “You don’t waste time.”

“I’m sorry, were we _not_ coming in here to fuck?”

"You tell me," Bucky said, stepping onto the totally-not-gross bath mat, closing the curtain behind him before leaning down to capture Steve's mouth in a smooth kiss.

Despite Steve's initial hastiness in pulling his pud, they ended up taking their time. Sharing a washcloth, trading it along with careful touches. Steve reached for the shampoo, scrubbing his fingers over Bucky's scalp until Bucky dropped to his knees, fall cushioned by the mat. Leaning forward to take Steve's cock between his lips.

“Jesus, Buck, your _mouth_ —" Steve groaned, fumbling for the detachable shower head, which he lifted from its cradle to use, oh-so-carefully, to rinse the suds from Bucky's hair as Bucky worked him over. There was something about the sheer fucking intimacy of it—of Steve taking the time to ensure he didn't get soap in his eyes as he sucked—that made him want to work all the harder to please him. So he redoubled his efforts, paying attention to the secret places. Didn't take much—Steve's body was as familiar to him as a favorite song, so he knew when he was close. Knew what he had to do to push him over the edge. Slid his index finger past him rim; swirled his tongue around the head of his prick and oh, yes. There it was. The tension in his thighs. The hitching of his breath. The curling of his toes.

Bucky pulled away, opening his mouth. Steve touched his cheek with one hand, then finished himself off with the other, mumbling an, “I love you” before coming with a gasping shout, most of his release making it into Bucky’s mouth, convenience in the form of running water taking care of what didn’t.

Once recovered, Steve tugged Bucky to his feet. Kissed him hard, bodies pressed tightly together. Then, he turned to face the wall. Spread his legs and looked over his shoulder to indicate that it was Bucky’s turn to get off.

Bucky knew he should say no. Because of the risk. Because it was stupid to try. He _knew_ it was stupid to try. To tempt fate. All the same, he stepped closer, the water on Steve’s skin providing a half-decent lube as he slid his prick against the cleft of Steve’s ass, frotting against his warmth.

It might have been perfect. Except that when Bucky came several minutes later, spattering Steve’s back with spunk, his shoulder seized up. Worse than it had in days, or weeks, or months, or maybe ever. The shout that accompanied his orgasm was one of pain rather than pleasure, tears springing to his eyes.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he managed, wishing to God for a second hand so he could grab his fucking shoulder and rub out this horror show.

Steve knew the nuances between ecstasy and agony, so he turned quickly, concern written all over his frowning face. “Buck?”

“F-fuckin’—Steve, my fuckin’ arm—”

“Shit, Buck,” he said. He was fast, then. Soothing hands and careful attention paid, until the sharp, stabbing pain ebbed, replaced with a dull throb of discomfort.

Neither of them said much as Steve turned off the water. Stepped out of the tub. Reached for their towels, handing one to Bucky before picking up his own.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, heart still thump-thumping in his chest while he stayed in the tub to dry off.

“Sure.” Steve hesitated. “We uh. We gonna talk about what just happened?”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve pursed his lips in a way that made Bucky think of Sarah when she was about to scold, so he knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. “You know, I’m not all that into fucking someone who’s hating it.”

“Hey!” Bucky snapped. “I don’t!”

“Except for how it hurts when you come.”

“It’s—” he scoffed. “Not _every_ time!”

“Every time lately,” Steve muttered. Shit, Bucky hadn’t realized he’d picked up on it so much. Because yeah, there was something in the way his muscles tensed during orgasm that sucked lately. And while it didn’t make him _not_ want to fuck, there was a certain reluctance to getting off when he knew pain might follow. Call it Pavlov’s jizz. But there had been a part of him that hoped doing it standing in the shower would be different than doing it in bed, or sitting on the couch, or pushing Steve onto the kitchen counter. But nope: this orgasm had been worse than any of those, so wasn’t that just the shit icing on the shit cake that was his life? Sex, the one pleasure he’d always had—the thing that kept him and Steve close, even when times were tough—welp, fuck you, pal. That’s gone, too.

“Yeah, well,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice as he swiped the towel across his chest. “Guess I’ll just worry about getting you off next time.”

It had been the wrong thing to say. The wrong time to make a joke. Steve’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not okay.”

“It was a joke, Steve.”

“Not a funny one.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, going for conciliatory.

“It doesn’t _matter_?” Steve said, and oh, there it was: the righteous fury of Steven Grant Rogers, cranked up to eleven. Standing there naked and dripping with a towel slung over his shoulder and the fire of a thousand supernovas sparking in his eyes. “Geez, Buck, what a shithead I am, wanting to make you feel good and not wanting to feel guilty about getting off.”

“Steve—” Bucky shut him up with a kiss, which was a tactic that hadn’t worked when they were sixteen, and sure as shit wasn’t going to work when they were closing in on thirty. Steve shoved him away, face scrunched up in anger.

“Don’t fucking _do_ that!” he said, yanking open the bathroom door to make a grand processional into the hallway.

“I’m not—hey, _Steve_!” Bucky hollered, rolling his eyes as he got out of the tub to follow.

“What?” Steve said, rounding on him. For just a moment, Bucky could see them the way an outsider might: a half-naked hallway fight. The two of them dripping and yelling and oh, it might have been funny if it weren’t so fucking sad.

“It…Jesus, sweetheart. I’m just saying, you know. It’s what we’ve got to work with. So we might as well—”

“Bullshit,” Steve muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means, Buck.”

Yeah, Bucky knew what it meant. It meant Steve wanted to talk about the surgery. Meant a mask over his face and someone telling him to count backward from ten. Meant waking up confused and terrified. Meant losing what ground he'd gained in mobility and independence. Meant months of physical therapy, fighting with his body to just fucking _work_.

And sure, maybe he’d feel a little better after all that. Maybe he’d be able to shoot a load without crying. But in two years, there’d probably be something else. Another set of issues. Another surgery. Then something else, and something else, and something else after that. On and on and on until he was six feet under.

Jesus, he was tired.

“We’re not having this conversation,” he said, pushing past Steve to stalk down the hall, water dropping all over the parquet floors. He didn’t give a single shit.

“You’re not—” Steve yelped. “Just…don’t leave your towel on the fucking floor when you’re done with it!”

“I can’t predict the future!”

“That’s not…shut up! You’re such a—”

“Such a _what_?" he shot back, spinning around, so his hair whipped water against the cheap poster frame that held Steve's prized, vintage Iggy Pop poster. "Aw, shit."

“Damn it, Bucky!” Steve rushed forward to wipe off the water, which wouldn’t have done any damage, but trust him to bring the drama. “How come you gotta take _your_ shit out on _my_ shit?”

“It was an accident!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t control the like…physics of my hair, Steve.”

“Try harder!”

Which annoyed Bucky to the point that he shook his head like a wet dog, water droplets flying everywhere.

“Bucky!” Steve cried, dismayed.

Bucky knew he could have ended the fight right then and there. Could have apologized. Mopped up the mess while diverting the surgery discussion to another day. Another fight.

Instead, he held his towel at arm’s length before letting it drop in a sodden heap to the floor. “Oooops.”

Had Steve not been naked, Bucky was pretty sure he would have walked right out of the house. As it was, he seemed fairly close to doing it anyway, clothes or no clothes.

One endless second passed. Then another. Steve’s eyes flicked from the towel to Bucky, then back again before he snarled out a “go _fuck_ yourself,” stomping in the direction of the bedroom and slamming the door.

Bucky’s anger evaporated instantly. Fuck, he hated fighting with Steve. With a sigh, he crouched to retrieve the towel, which he hung on its hook in the bathroom before using a couple of Kleenex to wipe the water from the poster. After that, he headed for the bedroom, because while Steve wouldn’t want to see him, his clothes were in there, and he couldn’t very well cook an apology dinner naked.

He knocked twice. When no answer was forthcoming, he pushed open the door to find Steve curled up on their bed, back to Bucky, with his mother’s gigantic old headphones covering his ears. Something loud and angry was emanating from them, and a quick glance at the record player told Bucky everything he needed to know. Steve, retreating into his bubble of rage, featuring a soundtrack of whatever crusty grunge he needed to make him feel better.

Everyone had their own coping mechanisms, Bucky supposed.

Dressing quickly, he left Steve to his own devices and headed to the kitchen instead. That was _his_ coping mechanism, so he started in on dinner. Somewhere between making the marinara sauce and getting the garlic bread in the oven, Steve appeared in the doorway, eyes a bit red, mostly-damp hair a messy tangle.

“Smells good, Buck,” he said, clearing his throat.

“It’s that sauce you like, with the butter and onions,” he replied, holding out a wooden spoon of red stuff as a peace offering.

“Great.” Steve took a step closer, holding his hand beneath his chin to save himself any spills as Bucky brought the spoon to his mouth. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks.” Bucky cleared his throat and turned away, setting the spoon back on its rest. “I uh--”

Steve moved first, wrapping his arms around Bucky from behind, holding him fast while he rubbed his forehead against his spine. “Please think about it?” he managed, voice strained.

Bucky closed his eyes, placing his hand atop Steve’s with a sigh. “I uh. I’m sorry about the poster. And the towel.”

Steve’s arms tightened. For a moment, Bucky worried the fight was going to start all over again. But then he felt the press of Steve’s lips against the skin just above the collar of his t-shirt.

“I love you so much, Bucky,” he murmured before pulling away. “I’ll set the table, okay?”

 

## 1993

 

Bucky had fucked up. Like, for real fucked up. Like, Steve was actually mad at him and probably wasn’t ever going to talk to him ever again fucked up.

Which was fair, _sort_ of? Except fuck Peggy Carter. _She’d_ been the one who provoked him. Was he _not_ supposed to defend himself when she was being ridiculous? How the hell was he supposed to have known they were on a date? Just because Steve had mentioned they were hanging out at that restaurant? Ugh, that wasn’t the same thing as a date! And like, okay, yes, he’d known Steve was _dating_ Peggy. But he hadn’t realized it was serious so, like, forgive him for not figuring out that two people sitting across from each other—not even holding hands, mind you!—were anything more than like…platonically chilling.

(Or, actually, had they been holding hands? Bucky couldn’t remember. But if he couldn’t remember, then they must not have been. He would _definitely_ have noticed if Steve was holding hands with some girl in a diner. Like, one hundred percent, that would have registered.)

The whole fight was dumb. Like, he’d opened his mouth and things had come out and he hadn’t been able to stop them sort of dumb. The recollection of how it had gone down was bugging him like an itch square in the center of his back where he couldn’t scratch. A mosquito bite in the form of this girl who just…she was _up_ to something! Why else would she be so into Steve? It wasn’t like Bucky was jealous (what would he even be jealous _of_ —he sure as shit didn’t want to kiss her), but he was protective of Steve, was all. He just didn’t want him to get hurt.

That was all he’d been trying to say, even! But then, like, Peggy had flipped her shit and thrown a milkshake at his _head_ before running out of the restaurant. And when Bucky had tried to explain, Steve had yelled at him about what a fucking asshole he was before running after her.

Leaving Bucky to pay the bill, including a charge for a sandwich for Steve’s ma that never even showed up. Plus Sonya was really pissed off and had given him hell before making him clean up the milkshake. So he had dealt with that, then he’d eaten both their dinners in a sulk, sticky and fuming. Who the fuck did Peggy think she was, anyway?

He did feel kinda bad about upsetting Steve, though. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to do; he was just trying to warn him, was all. If Steve wanted to be a baby about it, though, Bucky wasn’t even going to deal with him.

Because of that, he’d only briefly considered going to Steve’s place after leaving the diner, ultimately choosing not to. On principle. Let Steve pout on his own for a while; Bucky had shit to do. Granted, he hadn’t actually _done_ any of that shit, and instead had gone home to play Parcheesi with Becca and Freddie. But he _could_ have done something fun. He had _options._ He was an _interesting person_.

That didn’t make him feel less shitty when he woke up the next morning, though. Sweat-soaked, with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, which he rubbed out in the bathroom while standing under a stream of cold water.

God, Peggy sucked.

But, okay, for all that she’d been the aggressor, _Bucky_ was the one Steve was mad at. Because Steve was, like, a chivalrous guy, and Peggy (for all her numerous faults) was his girlfriend. Or whatever. And yeah, being in a fight with Steve sucked. Bucky knew that from experience, as they'd had their fair share of squabbles over the years, with a few memorable ones sticking out from the pack. Like when, at eight, Bucky (for truly dumb reasons) had decided he was switching allegiances to the Yankees, at which point Steve had hollered at him for twenty minutes before declaring him "a dumb, phony traitor" and stomping off. They'd made up an hour later over lunch. The other big fight had come when they were twelve, and Steve accidentally popped Bucky in the mouth while wrestling for control of the remote. The wrestling matches were common enough, but the actual fight had come after Bucky tattled to his mother. Which normally he _wouldn’t_ have, but his tooth had gotten chipped, and it hurt, so he’d had to confess. In retrospect, Steve probably flipped out because he thought maybe Bucky’s ma would make Sarah pay for the dentist, or whatever. But, like, they had really good insurance from his dad’s job, so it wasn’t a big deal.

They’d never fought over a girl, though. Or, well, this one wasn’t even _over_ a girl. Because Bucky didn’t give a shit about Peggy, except for figuring out how she was going to hurt Steve.

Bucky was looking out for him, was all.

Except, as he stuttered his fist to a stop, spooge swirling down the drain, Bucky came to a disconcerting realization. Namely: Steve, despite his weird sulkiness, had never once said anything to Bucky about his choice of girlfriends. Had kept his mouth shut, even when Bucky had chosen to date some real weirdos. Like Jessica, in seventh grade, who had been kind of mean to Steve for the month Bucky’d been hanging out with her.

No matter what, Steve had let him make his own mistakes. Kept his mouth shut.

So, like, did that make _him_ the tool in the Peggy situation?

Fucking probably. Shit. He needed to make up with Steve, and fast.

Hopping out of the shower, he made good time in getting dressed, calling a 'hi' to his mother as he scooted out the door. There was a killer bakery that lay halfway between his building and Steve's, so he stopped in, waiting in line while the old lady in front of him spent, like, thirty-five years choosing a loaf of pumpernickel. When it was finally his turn, he ordered two of the gross onion bagels Steve liked, along with plain for Sarah, and sesame seed for himself. Foodstuffs acquired, he jogged the rest of the way to Steve's building, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead as he picked up speed. He was going at a full run by the time he rounded the corner, vaulting over the gate and up to the buzzer.

Nothing.

He buzzed again.

Sarah Rogers’ bleary voice came over the speaker. “What is it?”

“Uh, hi Sarah,” he said, as they’d stopped any Mrs. Rogers formality when he was, like, eleven. “It’s Bucky.”

“Oh hey, honey,” she said, tone brightening. “Steve’s not up yet—he expecting you?”

“Nah. But I brought bagels.”

“My hero,” she said with a crackling little laugh as the door unlocked.

Bucky headed into the familiar vestibule, wrinkling his nose at the weird, garbage smell floating from the downstairs apartment, then took the stairs to where Sarah was waiting in the doorway, a smile on her face.

“Mornin’,” Bucky grinned.

“Good morning yourself,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“I uh, yeah,” he shrugged, taking in her terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers. “You slept yet?”

“Nope. I didn’t get home until one, and Stevie had a friend over, so I stayed up while he walked her home.”

Bucky’s heart took up residence in the downstairs garbage apartment. “Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Hey, you know this girl? The pretty one?”

“Uh. Kinda.”

“Steve said she’s Sharon’s cousin? Didn’t you and Sharon date?”

“I mean, like, yeah?” Bucky shrugged, handing the bag of bagels over to her before rubbing the back of his neck.

“I like Sharon.”

“Yeah, Shar’s cool,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell Steve I was being nosy, huh?” Sarah smiled, stepping back to let him in.

“I won’t.”

“Why don’t you go see if you can drag his honor out of bed? I’ll toast some bagels.”

“Yeah. That’s. Thanks, Sarah.”

“Sure, honey.”

Hands in his pockets, Bucky branched off into the living room, where he was confronted with the sight of the sofa. The innocent, squishy sofa where he'd spent countless hours hanging out with Steve. Fuck, had Steve and Peggy, like, been making out there? An uncomfortable scritching of white-hot discomfort crept up the back of his neck, making him squirm, unable to keep visions of that from dancing in his head. Except no: there was no way they'd gotten far. Steve wasn't—Steve _couldn’t_ —and Bucky wouldn’t—

Scowling, he pushed on, leaving the living room and stopping in front of Steve’s closed bedroom door, which he didn’t bother knocking on before pushing open. The sight that greeted him was familiar: Steve, on his side, back to the door, wearing nothing but his boxers, snoring like a jackhammer. For such a small guy, he made a _lot_ of noise—all those sinus infections, probably—which had made sleepovers interesting when they were in grade school. Privately, Bucky suspected Steve’s buzzsawing of being the reason people had stopped inviting him over for parties, contributing to his ensuing lack of popularity. Bucky, meanwhile, had learned to invest in earplugs.

Shutting the door with a thump, Bucky waited for the noise to have its desired effect—Steve shifting, with a grunt and a snuffle.

“Ma-aaa,” he complained, rolling onto his stomach while groaning, one hand coming back to, charmingly, scratch himself on the ass. “Go’way.”

“Ain’t your ma,” Bucky said with a grin, arms folded across his chest.

There was no missing the way Steve's spine stiffened, shoulders drawn up around his ears. "Buck, get _out_ ,” he snapped.

"Aw, Steve, c' mon—"

“Bucky!” He lifted his head, then let it flop back onto his pillow, where he spoke with a muffled groan. “You gotta go.”

“Steve, I’m trying to—”

“I got a boner, okay?” he yelped, lifting his head enough that Bucky could see how red his cheeks had gotten.

“Shit,” he realized, coughing out a surprised laugh. “Uh. Sorry. Yeah. I’ll…just be…yup.”

Making haste into the hallway, he stuck his fingers in his ears, determined not to listen to the sounds of Steve shuffling about. Definitely wasn’t thinking about what Steve was doing to get his hard-on under control (though, like, was he willing it into submission, or just putting on pants so he could tuck it into the waistband? There were a few options, was all, because Bucky knew he wasn’t gonna be whacking off right then and there.)

“Okay,” Steve called after a minute.

Bucky went back in, where, okay, could he help that his eyes briefly dipped to the tie on the sweatpants Steve had put on? No, he could not; he was human.

“Quit it,” Steve muttered.

“What? I didn’t—”

“What are you doing here, Buck?” he said, with an air of peevish authority that only he could project, arms folded across his chest, an expression on his face that could curdle milk.

“I brought bagels?” Bucky offered, the words sounding lame as they left his lips.

“And?”

"Uh. And your ma's toasting 'em?"

“Great. Thanks. You can go. We’ll eat the bagels.”

"Steve, c' mon…"

"What? You show up with a bagel, and I'm supposed to just forgive you?"

The apology that had been on the tip of Bucky’s tongue died like a twitching spider beneath a boot. Fuck Steve and his moral high ground; Bucky hadn’t done anything _wrong_. “Pfft,” he said, words coming faster than his brain could think through consequences, all his internal warning systems screaming _Danger, Danger!_ “From what your ma said, you ought to be _thanking_ me.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Just that she said she walked in on you and little miss—”

“Bucky,” Steve growled, a threat and a promise in his tone.

“—which let me just say, you _never_ woulda had the balls to bring a girl back here if I hadn’t—”

“You better watch your goddamn mouth.”

“I mean, she seems like the type,” he continued with a sneer, and honest to Christ, why couldn’t he just. Stop. Talking?

That was the moment Steve punched him.

It wasn’t much of a punch, all things considered, but the shock of Steve _hitting_ him—intentionally, maliciously—sent Bucky’s head spinning. He stood and gawked for the second it took him to understand what had happened; to realize his pride had been wounded more than his jaw.

He shoved Steve back out of sheer frustration, sending him sprawling onto his mattress with a grunted 'oomph.'

“Don’t you fucking hit me,” he snarled.

“Then you better watch your goddamn _mouth_ ,” Steve said, drawing in a ragged breath as he sat up, eyes flashing fire (shit, shit, _shit_ , the wheezing—last thing Bucky needed was for him to have an asthma attack), “when you’re talking about my girlfriend.”

“Your _what_?”

That was all he got out before Steve rushed him, an ungainly, flailing ball of rage. He used both fists to go after Bucky as hard as he could, forcing him to fight back. To grab Steve’s arms. Shake him. Force him to the ground.

The two of them rolled on the floor, caught in some strange, scrappy, one-sided wrestling match because Bucky wasn’t going to hit back. No matter what, Bucky _wouldn’t_ hit back. Because Steve wasn’t strong enough to do much damage, but he was, and he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he _wouldn’t_. Not even when Steve scrabbled at him with everything he had as he tried desperately to stop him. Calm him. End this.

That was when things got bad. _Worse_. Because Bucky chose that moment to wedge his knee between Steve’s splayed thighs, in an attempt to pin him down.

But he had forgotten about Steve’s stupid boner. Which wasn’t so much _gone_ as it was hidden by his baggy sweats.

"Fuck!" he yelled, when he felt the length of Steve's hardness against his thigh, body twitching like he'd been burned.

“Fuck _you_!” Steve replied, face bright red, mortification evident in his tone.

“Would you knock it _off_ and calm _down!_ ” Bucky yelped, wide-eyed and half-panicked as he caught Steve’s wrists before he could smack him again, pinning one hand by each ear.

So then, well. There they were. Panting. Frustrated. Steve wild with anger. Bucky holding him down.

After what happened next—after he’d run—Bucky would tell himself it had been adrenaline. Rage. The heat of the moment. As if that could make what he did make sense. Make it mean something less than what he knew, deep down, it was.

Because that was when Bucky kissed his best friend.

Couldn't say why. Hadn't come over to do it. But Steve had called Peggy Carter his girlfriend, and everything in Bucky's life had stopped making sense, so he didn't know anything except that maybe she'd kissed Steve _first,_ but he was gonna kiss him _best._ Show him what it meant to be kissed. Maybe then Steve would forget about her while she fucked off back to England to kiss other guys and—

Steve wasn’t kissing him back.

Instead, Steve was using what tiny bit of leverage he had in his position to slam his forehead against Bucky’s, knocking him back. Reeling from the unexpected blow, Bucky released Steve’s hands, and Steve scrambled away, cheeks flaming.

Mortified, Bucky shot to his feet.

“What the fuck?” Steve whispered.

“I gotta—” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t be there.

So, he ran.

Ran from the room. The apartment. The building. Ran and ran and ran away from Steve. Steve, who didn’t call after him. Steve, who hadn’t kissed him back. Steve, who had looked at him with utter contempt.

Steve, who was never, ever gonna forgive him for this.

Bucky made it as far as the end of the block before puking what was left of last night’s dinner at the base of a scraggly, half-dead tree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sweet idiot babies. Once again, so grateful for the lovely, kind comments I've received on this story - I read them all and clutch them close, like some winsome Victorian heroine.


	7. left me here behind

**Yeah, you left me here behind** **  
****A stupid state of mind, and you’re gone** **  
** _-The Cranberries_

 

## 2005

Peggy stepped off the curb. Steve wished for a camera, a sketchbook, anything to capture the surety of her stride; the set of her jaw as she took firm hold of her new city, entirely at-ease while navigating the crowd, arriving on the other side of the street and turning left, where her eyes settled on him.

He stood from the small, outdoor table of the West Village restaurant she'd chosen for dinner, where he'd been waiting for ten minutes, having decided to sit outside rather than in. This was a nice neighborhood, so there was a reduced chance of hot garbage smells infiltrating their meal. Plus, after a day spent standing under the fluorescent lights that hung over his checkout station, he was glad to be in the sunshine for a while.

"Hi," she called when she was close enough. Shit, she was pretty, in a pair of dark wash jeans and a blouse—business casual looked better on her than most people.

“Hi,” he called back, waiting while she let herself in through the tiny gate, crossed to him, and pressed twin continental kisses to his cheeks. “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” she agreed. “Sorry I’m so late—work was an absolute madhouse. How are you? Did you order?”

“Just a drink,” he said, taking his seat, errantly wishing her bra strap wasn’t making a break for her elbow, because he might have been older, but he was no wiser when it came to noticing little things like that. Which was fine—he was married, not dead. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, fine,” she said, waving her hand as she glanced at the menu, then made short work of that drooping strap. “Well, no, it’s not fine, but I’ve survived worse.”

“Got it.”

“Indeed. Have you eaten here before?”

Considering the cheapest entree on the menu cost more than what he made in an hour, no, he hadn’t eaten there before. He offered a polite smile anyway, knocking some hair from his forehead. “Nah. I’m not in Manhattan enough to try a lot of places.”

“Gosh, you made the trip for little old me?” she teased. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. You live nearby?”

“Just around the corner.”

“That’s convenient.”

The left side of Peggy’s mouth turned up, and she shifted, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other, ever-poised. “Have you heard from Kerry yet?”

Dangle a morsel, wait for the bite—that was Peggy, tried and true. “Kerry?”

“From the marketing team.”

Steve’s fingers flexed on the menu, heart jumping in his chest as he swallowed, trying to keep his expression placid. “No. Should I have?”

“Mmmhmm.” The other side of her mouth had turned up now, a calculated smile on her face.

Steve bit. “Peggy!”

“Well!” She scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder, then giving him a smile. “You’ll be hearing from her soon, I’d wager.”

“So they’re...uh, I mean, I’m on the roster?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “As it happens, Flame On has a new record in the works, and we’re not planning on using in-house talent, considering how well their last one did—”

“Ugh.” Steve wrinkled his nose. Johnny Storm’s brand of late eighties Bon Jovi-wannabe pop had never been to his taste.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peggy said, mock-offended as she touched a hand to her heart. “Were you expecting me to get you the tour poster for the Bifrost?”

“No, but—” Steve’s ears went hot.

“I wasn’t aware beggars could be choosers,” she said, a teasing lilt to her tone.

“You know Flame On sucks.”

"I'm well aware," she agreed. "Johnny Storm's a self-righteous prig, and his last album performed atrociously. That means his marketing is being relegated to the err...how would you put it? The minor leagues?"

Steve couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah.”

“That’s you, I’m afraid. For now.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Surely you weren’t seriously expecting to be handed a heavy hitter your first go-around?”

"No," he said because he wasn't that naive. "But Johnny Storm? Seriously?"

“It’s not as though you have to listen to the album,” Peggy countered. “Kerry’ll fill you in on the details, but my understanding is that they want you to take on a couple of print pieces, plus some elements for the web redesign.”

Johnny Storm sucked. Flame On was terrible. But they were popular enough with a certain crowd that it would mean exposure if he did well enough, and maybe some better jobs down the line. “Thank you, for uh...putting me up for it.”

“I didn’t, really. Kerry was impressed with your portfolio.”

“Yeah, but you gave it to her, and—”

“And it spoke for itself.” She glanced at their waiter, who’d just appeared. He introduced himself as Kevin (he looked like a Kevin), taking Peggy’s drink order, as well as her request for a bread basket.

Steve silenced his growling stomach with a fist pressed firmly to his middle. This wasn't the sort of place where the bread came free.

“I’m fucking famished,” she said when Kevin stepped away. “I had a sad desk yogurt around ten, but—”

“That’s no good,” Steve found himself saying, the response a parroted echo of all the times he’d gotten on Bucky’s case about not eating over the years.

“Thank you, mum,” Peggy said, eyebrow arched.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish. “But I’m right.”

“Point taken.” She folded her menu to peer at him with such intensity that he felt like a specimen in a jar. “I’m sorry we didn’t do this sooner.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“It has,” she countered. “Nearly a month, and I’m sure Bucky’s—” She caught herself on Bucky’s name, then cleared her throat. “Well. Anyway.”

“What about Bucky?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Peggy coughed. “He was just...adamant I not lose touch. With you.”

That was news to Steve. “Uh. What?”

“When he ran after me, at dinner?” she offered. “With the tart? Which, speaking of—” Leaning down, she rummaged in her bag for a moment before producing the takeout container Bucky had used for the dessert. “Here you go.”

“Uh, thanks.” Steve reached out to take it, putting it on his lap for lack of a better option.

“Tell him it was delicious, will you?”

“Yeah, sure. Or you can tell him yourself.” There was no mistaking the way her smile dimmed at that. “Or...not?”

“It was only,” she said, affecting a nonchalance so casual he could see straight through it. “He said not to lose touch with _you_ , specifically. Only.”

“Ah.”

“I assumed he was giving me the brush-off.”

Steve frowned. “That’s...not it, exactly.” He wasn’t sure, but he could just about guess what Bucky’s good intentions had been attempting.

“No?”

“It’s uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look. I don’t need Bucky airing my dirty laundry. But yeah, when you left, I was pretty broken up about it. For a long time. Only I wasn’t gonna bring it up with you.”

“But…” Peggy trailed off, brows drawing together.

“But what?”

“But you had Bucky?”

“That’s…” He laughed, because for her to think that way was spectacularly missing the point. “Shit, Frank, having Bucky was a piss-poor consolation prize after having had the both of you. He’d say the same about me, I bet.”

“Steve.”

“No, look. Thing is, I’m not mad about it. I got over being mad about it a long time ago—around the time I realized you weren’t gonna write back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate that. But knowing that now doesn’t make things easier then. Bucky, well, he had to deal with me. With the shitty little pissant I turned into over the situation. Still, he shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

“He was concerned.”

“Yeah, well, he’s always concerned,” he shrugged, the back of his neck heating. “We were kids, and I was obsessed with you. So was he, but it was...different for me. First love has a way of strangling out common sense, you know?”

A brittle smile crossed Peggy’s face. “I was far from your first.”

“What?” He laughed. “You mean Bucky? Shit, Peg. That’s not the same thing. Bucky’s etched on my bones, stupid as that sounds. I loved him before I knew what love was, and you can’t fall in love with what you’ve already got.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that.”

“But you? You were the first person who ever really _saw_ me. I think you knew it, too, so while I'm not gonna sit here and rehash the past, you should know that yeah, you meant a lot to me. To us. When you disappeared, I was fucked up, which is why Bucky's overprotective. All the same—" Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile. "Don't let him guilt trip you into a friendship with me. And don't let him make you think you can't have one with him, too."

“Is that what he was doing?”

“Probably, and—”

“Gin and tonic.” Kevin chose an opportune moment to break in, sweeping to the table with Peggy’s drink, jarring both of them from their conversation. “And a water.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. It was impossible to miss the condescension in Kevin’s tone, implying—by virtue of his lack-of-drink—that Steve was going to be a lousy tipper. Which was stupid on Kevin’s part, because Steve was a _great_ tipper.

“Thank you,” Peggy said, voice tight and flustered, which Steve hadn’t heard from her in a long time. “Ah, can we just…let’s order, shall we?”

“Of course,” Kevin said. He proved to be one of those waiters who didn’t write anything down, which was all well and good so long as the food came out right. Once he was gone, they faced each other again.

“Steve, I’m sorry,” Peggy began.

“It’s water under the bridge,” he demurred, which was true. For the most part.

“Be that as it may,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You’re owed an explanation.”

“I’m not.”

“You _are_ ,” she said firmly. “It’s only…it’s going to sound like excuses, and I don’t mean for it to. But you know why I was in America, and you know why I had a hard time leaving. I’d thought I could handle it; that I could manage. That eventually I’d make it back here.”

“That was the plan,” he agreed.

“It was, indeed. Only thing was, when I got back to London? Back to school? To my mum? Jesus, I was a mess. Going from what we had—what you two gave me—to nothing? I turned into this angry, spiteful creature, so furious at having been dragged across an ocean that I subconsciously decided to stop trying.”

Steve frowned, finger trailing around the edge of his water. “We tried to reach out.”

“I know you did,” she said. “But I wasn’t…I wasn’t willing to try. I had massive rows with my parents, threw myself into school, then fucked off for a gap year before I started uni. Told myself I was seeing the world, though all I saw was the ceiling of a few piss-soaked hostels. For years I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted.”

“Peggy—“

“No, let me finish,” she said. “Bucky isn’t wrong to look out for you. I’m not—historically, I _haven’t_ been—good at keeping people close. God knows I made you both promises I never kept. So I’m sorry, for whatever that’s worth. As for this? Here and now?” At that, she touched the table, index finger extended. “It’s not _pity_. Leastways, it’s not pity on my part. I’m here because I want to be. Because it’s good to see you again, even if I’m ashamed of the way I left things.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Ashamed. You’re…shit, we are what we are when we’re kids, right?”

Peggy half-smiled. “Unfortunately.”

“We can’t change the past, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re clean-slated.”

“Clean-slated, eh?”

“Yup.”

“That settles it, then. We’re fucking friends.”

“Fucking friends,” he echoed. “I’ll tell Bucky to stop minding my business for me.”

“Oh, don’t,” she said, reaching over to touch the back of his hand. “It needed to be said, and he’s only looking out for you.”

“Yeah, well, I ought to be the one to say it, if it’s gonna get said. I don’t need my boyfriend acting like some catalyst just because he’s got a guilty conscience over his own shit.”

Oops—he’d said too much. Peggy released him, reaching for her glass, then asking a follow-up with the practiced nonchalance he’d learned to see through at fifteen. “Why should Bucky have a guilty conscience?”

Speaking of subconsciousness, that had probably been Steve’s drumming at the inside of his skull. Telling him he ought to talk to _someone_ about his situation. Which, you’d think the conscious half of his brain would have had an answer prepared. Some bullshit handwaving effort to minimize their problems and cast their squabbles as something simple. Instead, he’d been the one dangling bait, which Peggy had taken.

“We uh. We’ve been fighting a little,” he admitted.

“Oh?” she said, brow furrowing.

“Yeah. There was, I mean, last week. There was a bad one.”

A further furrow as she swirled the ice in her glass. “Over?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

Steve ignored the momentary twinge of guilt as he set his jaw. “It’s uh, Bucky’s accident— _accident_ , that’s what everyone kept calling it. Like there’s something accidental about a bomb going off—”

“I understood what you meant,” Peggy said gently.

"It's bullshit. Like how all these well-meaning people kept calling my ma's cancer untimely? Obviously, it's untimely, but that doesn't make her not dead, you know?

“Yes,” she said, voice strained. “I do.”

Shit. Of course, she did. The moment the words left her lips, Steve remembered just who he was talking to—the tragedy that had shaped so much of the difficult, tough girl he’d fallen for. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s how people cope, I think. Oh, it was an accident, an untimely death, something uncommon. They’re able to pretend it can’t happen to them, so long as they paint it as a rarity.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, thumb and index finger rolling the hem of the tablecloth. “In uh, in Bucky’s case, there were six guys in the vehicle, and he’s the only one—I mean, he shouldn’t have lived. Everyone said so. It was just a fucking fluke that he lost his arm instead of his head.”

Peggy flinched.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, don’t be,” she said. “It’s only, I still don’t quite understand how Bucky ended up in Sokovia.”

How, indeed? Bucky, a kid from a solidly middle-class family, who was never going to be anyone’s prime candidate for cannon fodder, ending up the one bleeding out in the middle of a warzone.

"It was uh," he cleared his throat. "Kinda because of me?" Fuck if that wasn't the bitter pill he'd been swallowing for the past eight years.

“You?”

“Yeah. I mean, you know my dad was military, and I always sort of figured I’d join up after school to get college paid for.”

“You’d mentioned that, yes. I was never sure if you were serious.”

"Don't get me wrong, after what happened with my dad, I have some big problems with how this country handles shit around the world. But, you know, I didn't want to put a burden on my ma when it came to school—I saw how much debt fucked her up. Plus, the idealist in me figured I could do some good while I was enlisted, you know? Bring a little empathy to the proceedings. Except…" he laughed because the grudge hadn't faded much in the intervening years. "I had limited fuckin' options."

“How’d you mean?”

"I mean, they wouldn't take me. Because of my asthma, the uh…all my GI stuff. The bullshit with my heart from when I was little. Which is ironic, or whatever, because ma spent all this time and money dragging me to every doctor she could find in the hopes I'd get a little bit better. She worked her ass off for our insurance, and all the stuff they did, it helped. Made me okay. Except Uncle Sam took one look and said no thanks."

“Steve—“

“In retrospect, I’m not sorry. After Sokovia…the things Bucky saw there? I’ll grab a sign and join any protest, because if I’m gonna make a difference, it’s not gonna be by helping our government support some tinpot dictator who starves his own people and blows up my fucking boyfriend.”

“Right.”

"What was crazy, though," he continued. "Was that the army shit didn't matter in the end. I got my scholarship based on my artistic talent, which I'm totally putting to good use these days."

“Steve!”

“What?” he grinned. “I work at a grocery store. I’m not exactly showing at galleries.”

“So?”

“Eh,” he shrugged, waving a hand. “Anyway. When uh, when the shit with my getting rejected happened, Bucky…well, you know he worries too much about what other people think. And fuck knows he’s been trying to save me from myself since we were little. So, like, he’s never _said_ it to me? But I’m pretty sure he joined up out of some half-assed loyalty.”

"Oh, really?"

“Yeah. Like, in the back of his mind, he’s thinking that if they won’t take _Steve_ , then they’ll sure as hell take _me_ , and I can do all the things he shoulda done.”

“A proxy,” Peggy supplied.

“Yeah, but like I said, he’d never admit it.”

“And you’d never suggest it.”

Steve laughed, releasing his vice grip on the tablecloth. “Something like that.”

“Gift of the fucking Magi with you two,” she teased.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, and before he could work up a proper smart-aleck response, Kevin returned with the bread basket, placing it on the table between them. Steve's mouth watered, so he averted his eyes, though not before noticing that the bread was _assorted_ , with a variety of crackers and rolls and cornbread and oh, fuck, he was starving.

“Go on,” Peggy said dismissively. “I’m not eating it all on my own.”

Any pride Steve might once have had about free food was long since gone, so he didn’t hesitate at the offer, reaching for one of the soft, white rolls and ripping it open, slathering it with what looked to be herb butter.

Fancy. Fucking. People.

“So uh,” he went on, as Peggy reached for a breadstick. “Buck joins up, we kept in touch, and two years later his ma calls me, hysterical. Tells me he was in a tank or a humvee or something that went over a fucking bomb and now he’s at a base in Germany, in surgery, and oh, yeah, he doesn’t have an arm.”

“Jesus.”

“Which—and I’m getting to how this all ties into the fight we had, I swear.”

“It’s fine.”

“Right. So, the thing about Bucky’s accident is that the worst part of it was losing the arm, obviously. But, like, that wasn’t the only shit that happened to him? There was a ton of shrapnel, and some of that got embedded in, uh, places. Cut right into the muscle of his right side, too, and—okay, I’m not a doctor, so, you know. I don’t fully understand this—”

“Neither am I,” Peggy reminded him.

“So…” Steve tore off a bite of his roll. “They got out all the shrapnel that was actually _dangerous_ , but he’d been through so much trauma at that point, and he was really touch-and-go for a while. Which meant they didn’t get the stuff that was just uh, painful? So he’s living with a lot of that shit inside of him.”

“God, that must be miserable.”

“It is. And after he was back home? Well…I’m not gonna rehash it, but suffice to say, it was a long road to get him from where he was then to where he is now.”

“I’d imagine so.”

"But then about a year ago, his shoulder starts bothering him more and more. Like, sure, he's always in some degree of pain, but this was more than that. It was a new pain, bad pain. Wasn't happening all the time, but it was enough that I made him go see a doctor, who does some scans and says oh, yeah, couple of the bigger pieces have shifted, so when he moves certain ways, they're hitting like…nerves or joints or something?"

“Is it life-threatening?” Peggy asked, voice sharp.

“What? Oh, no, no,” he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

“So, then what—?”

“Well, that’s the thing. We went to see another doctor for a second opinion, and he offered surgery as an option. Because it’s not like it would have been right after the accident, where cutting into him might put him at risk. Plus, the new surgery would improve his quality of life. Like, a lot. But it wouldn’t be a minor procedure because of something to do with how his shoulder blade sits and…whatever. It’s complicated. What it boils down to is, he’d initially lose some function in his right arm. Not _permanently_ , but he’d have to go back to physical therapy, which he hates. So the doctor lays all this out, and then Bucky just says no.”

Peggy blinked. “But if it would help in the long run, surely…”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Frank,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “There’s so many good outcomes. Improved range of motion, less pain—because, okay, there’s other shrapnel in the same general area, so the doctor thinks they could get a few pieces at once, and then he’d have less discomfort overall. Like, maybe he could get a job, you know? Go to school?”

“Absolutely.”

“The other thing is—which he’d probably kill me if I knew I was telling you this—the pain’s getting worse. It’s starting to impede, you know. Our lives. Uh. Together.”

Peggy, smart as a tack and twice as sharp, picked up what he was putting down. “I see.”

“So that’s it, really. Every time I bring up the surgery with him, he shuts down, or we fight about it. And now I’m feeling guilty about talking to you, so that’s fun.”

“You’re entitled to talk to a friend,” she said. “Granted, I’m no expert on relationships, but my understanding is that nobody can be everything to another person, so you needing to vent your spleen—and I’m not just saying that because it’s me—that’s _normal_ , Steve.”

“Doesn’t really ease the guilt,” he admitted.

“Better work on that,” she said, popping the last of her breadstick into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before responding. “If I’m being totally honest, though, I can see it from both sides.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” she said, “if you’ll permit me?”

“By all means.”

“Right. So. Obviously, you want the best for Bucky. And by that, you want him to be as well as he can be. To live a life with as little pain as possible.”

“Yep.”

“How terribly human of you, Steve. Loving him and wanting him to be happy.”

That got a smile from him as he reached for one of the fancy crackers.

“That said,” Peggy continued. “Bucky’s the one who’s suffering. He’s the one signing up for the procedure, and he’s the one who’s been through it all before—who knows what he’s getting himself into. Because of that, he’s the one who has to make the choice.”

Steve’s smile faded, and he scuffed the worn toe of his sneaker against the ground. “I’m not trying to minimize that. Jesus, if anyone knows how much recovering from surgery can suck…”

Peggy’s nodded, reaching out to pat his hand. “You absolutely do. It’s only—and this is very much me talking out my arse, so feel free to tell me to fuck off if you like. I won’t be offended. But the thing is, when _you_ were going through your surgeries, you had your mum waiting for you, telling you it was alright. You had a home to go back to, plus someone who loved you and wanted to take care of you waiting on the other side.”

“Bucky has—”

"Bucky," she went on, gentle in her admonishment. "From what you've told me, had his first set of surgeries in a military hospital halfway around the world. Imagine that much pain and trauma, when you're alone and scared, and no doubt dealing with a fair bit of survivor's guilt. It's not—" She took a deep breath, squeezing his hand, middle finger rubbing the skin of his wrist. "All I'm saying is that I can see why he's frightened. Logically, of course he knows you're the one who's going to be there—who's going to take care of him and love him as he recovers—but _knowing_ that doesn’t keep the fear from creeping in. It doesn’t keep you from expecting the worst. Same as how I can’t help tearing up when I’m in a taxi that has to slam on the brakes. Even hearing tires squeal, I shake so badly I’m nearly sick.”

“Fuck,” he said, upset for missing what should have been obvious.

“If you’re angry with me, that’s alright. But I felt I ought to say it.”

“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head, because it wasn’t. As much as it pained him to admit, the outside perspective was helpful. “It’s only, you know. You oughta be a therapist instead of an executive.”

“Ha.” She grinned, shaking her head. “I only speak the language of lived trauma, I’m afraid. I leave healing it to the professionals. And I _never_ take my own advice.”

 

## 1993

“Honey?”

Steve heard his mother’s voice at the end of the hall. Knew he ought to get up, but found he couldn’t move. Because his lips were numb and he was glued to the floor, and oh, yeah, Bucky had _kissed_ him, and _Bucky_ had kissed him, and Bucky had kissed _him,_ so nothing made sense except now his mother was coming to check on him, with the door hanging wide open, so he needed words and explanations and something more than the vague, gnawing panic in his gut.  

“Wait!” he yelped.

“What’s wrong?” Shit. Now she was suspicious. No good. No good! “Why’d Bucky run out of here?”

“Just—“ Steve scrambled to his knees as Sarah appeared in the doorway, frown on her face. “Hi.”

There it was—the Official Sarah Rogers Raised Brow of Consternation. “Hi. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!”

“Uh-huh. You guys had a fight?”

Steve shrugged because they’d probably been yelling kinda loud. “I guess, yeah.”

Sarah's eyes narrowed, and Steve had to imagine he looked terrible—on his knees, clothes and hair mussed—which, considering his track record with scuffles, was sure to make her worry. "Steven…"

“Ma!”

“Don’t you snap at me.”

“I’m _not_ , but I just woke up, and Bucky was here, and he started yelling at me, and now everybody's on my _case_!”

“Well, now that’s just tragic,” she said in a way that indicated she didn’t think it was tragic at all, folding her arms across her chest and staring him down. “If you and Bucky are in a fight, that’s your business, but you know how I feel about throwing punches.”

“I didn’t!”

“Mmm.”

“Ma.” Steve scowled. “How do you know _he_ didn’t start it.”

“I don’t. But I know you’re more likely to escalate it.”

How could Steve argue with that? “I didn’t hit him hard.”

“Did he hit you first?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then what the hell happened?”

“It was…” he huffed. “We were kinda…wrestling?”

“Saints preserve us,” Sarah said, with a roll of her eyes and two taps of her wedding ring against the doorframe. “You think I got the money to pay for another dislocated shoulder?”

“Ma…”

“Next time, the deductible’s comin’ outta your ass, Steven Grant. You wanna act like a punk, you can pay for it.”

“Bucky’s not gonna—”

“I know _Bucky’s_ not gonna, but you might.”

“You always take his side!”

That got another eye-roll from Sarah, who crossed the room, using her thumb and forefinger to give him the lightest of thumps on the forehead. "Use this once in a while, huh? Fight smarter."

“You don’t even know what he did,” Steve groused, looking up at all five foot nothing of her, towering over him.

“Nope,” she agreed. “But even if you’re the one who’s right—and I actually _am_ on your side here, kiddo—I don’t want you getting physical. With anyone. You got me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, because he knew when he was licked.

“That’s my boy. Now, you wanna come out to the kitchen? You might be in a fight with Bucky, but I’m not, and I want some of those bagels he brought.”

Steve's stomach turned over, and he started to shake his head before Sarah's narrowed eyes stopped an outright rejection. They didn't, as a rule, turn down free food. "Uh, yes, ma'am," he repeated.

“They’ll be ready when you are,” she said, leaving him alone to deal with the aftermath of the fight.

Steve got to his feet, stopping at the mirror attached to his scratch-and-dent dresser, where he discovered that his lips were an unnatural shade of pink and his hair was sticking straight up on one side—probably from where Bucky had yanked it. Annoyed, he grabbed his comb and tugged it through the snarls, before touching his palm to his lips.

What the _fuck_ , Bucky?

The kiss had come from nowhere, was the weirdest part. Sure, Steve had known he was, like, bisexual, or whatever,  but he wasn’t shouting it from the rooftops, and he sure as shit hadn’t told Bucky. And yeah, okay, he’d had a crush on Bucky since he was old enough to know what crushes were. He could admit that much. But it wasn’t like Bucky had never shown any inclination toward him in return. Also, he _definitely_ hadn’t let Steve in on the fact that he was…what? Gay? Bi? Ugh, Bucky was confusing.

And he had kissed Steve.

So now Steve had to fucking _deal_ with that.

Because Peggy was his girlfriend, and he liked her a lot. But the urge to kiss Bucky back had been there. He couldn’t deny that, even if the kiss had been all wrong. Nothing like he’d imagined kissing Bucky might be. It had been kind of awful, with Bucky on top of him— _pinning him to the ground_ —kissing him hard. Like it was a thing that was inevitable. Like oh, hey, Steve, I know we’re fighting but let me lay one on you like some old movie and also accidentally touch your boner.

Bucky _sucked_. Why couldn’t he have kissed Steve six months ago? That would have been awesome and amazing. But now, there was Peggy. His cool, hot, funny girlfriend. The person he liked more than anyone else he’d ever liked, save for maybe Bucky. Except he didn’t like Bucky very much right now.

There was a weird, twisting snake in his brain whispering _cheater cheater cheater_ with every passing second. Because he _was_ a cheater, even if he hadn’t kissed Bucky back. Kissing back didn’t matter, not when Steve had felt his prick jump against his thigh. Not when his whole body had lit up with _wanting_ the second he’d gotten over the shock. Not when an awful, traitorous part of him had thought being pinned down by Bucky wasn’t so bad.

Steve had to tell her what had happened.

God, this wasn't fair! This should have been a great morning! He should have woken up, then rubbed one out in the sanctity of his small room while thinking about making out with Peggy. Which they'd done for like two full hours the night before, until his ma got home. And—and!—Peggy had let him touch her breast over her bra but under her shirt, which had been the most exciting experience of his life until, not two minutes later, she had rubbed his dick over his jeans. Like, full-on hand-on-bulge contact, which had been transcendent until it was terrifying, and he'd had to stop her before things took a turn for the messy.

But still! That should have been a momentous milestone! Only now it had become another moment fucked up by Bucky.

Bucky, who was out to screw up everything about his relationship with Peggy.

Which— _oh_! Steve didn’t know much about romance, but he knew a few things about his friend, so in hindsight? Bucky’s jealousy might not have been because Peggy was into Steve, but rather because _Bucky_ was.

Not that any of it mattered. Peggy was his girlfriend, and Bucky could get bent.

Steve glared at his reflection for a minute longer, then went to join his mother for breakfast.

 

* * *

 

The snake in his brain gnawed at him until he could call Peggy at a socially acceptable hour. He didn’t want to tell her what had happened over the phone, but when he suggested she come over, she informed him that she and Sharon had plans for the day, but that she could come by that evening.

"Shall I bring a movie?" she asked, a teasing lilt to her tone. "Or will your mum be at home?"

“It uh…” Steve swallowed. “She doesn’t work tonight. But we can uh…go in my room, or uh…” _We can watch a movie if you decide not to dump me for cheating on you like the cheater I am_. “Yeah.”

“I’ll bring one of Sharon’s. See you at eight?”

“Yeah. Uh, cool. See you then.”

Steve spent the remainder of the day in a nervous fret, cleaning the apartment without being asked while Sarah took one of her long, night-shift-necessitated naps. That, unfortunately, meant she was up when Peggy rang the buzzer, and Steve, who had been at her side on the sofa, leaped to his feet.

“I’ll get it!”

“Yes, you will,” she agreed, more interested in the show she was watching than Steve’s date (her only passing comment about their plans having been, “you’re seeing a lot of this girl.”)

Steve scooted to the door, hitting the buzzer, then stepping into the hallway to wait. Peggy came up the stairs clutching a brown paper bag with grease spots on the sides, wearing a grin along with a short, black dress. “Hi,” she greeted.

“Hey,” Steve said, but his voice came out funny. Sort of a squeak mixed with a growl.

“Have you eaten?” she asked. If she’d noticed the strangeness, she wasn’t saying so.

“Uh. I mean. I could…could eat, yeah.” Because while he’d been nervously grazing all day, he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since breakfast.

“Brilliant. I picked up Chinese on the way over—hope you like egg rolls and fried rice.”

“Nutritious,” Steve said, forcing an awkward chuckle. _That_ got Peggy’s attention, and she squinted at him.

“Is something wrong?”

“Uh. No. Let’s just go to my room?”

“Alright,“ she agreed, confusion coloring her tone.

Getting to his room necessitated a pass through the living room, where Sarah gave them an up and down glance. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers,” Peggy greeted, same as she had the night before when Sarah came home to find them canoodling. Not _kissing_ —they’d jumped apart the moment they heard her key in the lock—but it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what they’d been up to.

“Hi, honey.”

“We’re going to my room,” Steve said, projecting more confidence into the statement than it deserved.

“Sure. Leave the door open.”

“Ma!”

“My house, my rules.”

As if they hadn’t been alone for hours the evening before. Steve wasn’t going to risk an argument, though, lest she implore them to join her on the couch instead. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, tossing his head in the direction of his room, not quite bold enough to grab Peggy’s hand in front of his mother.

Once they were safely hidden—the door cracked a good six inches—Peggy busied herself with the food, opening up containers, ripping into plastic cutlery and wooden chopsticks, while Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, awkwardly trying to figure out the best way of telling her that he’d kind-of-cheated on her.

“Egg roll?” she asked, turning away from the desk with one in each hand.

“Uh.” Steve blinked, watching as she took a bite, grease shiny on her lips, which was…distracting. It was distracting. He shrugged, clearing his throat and rocking back on his heels. “I uh. Not right now.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, putting the second one back in the bag.

“Something happened,” he blurted.

Peggy turned, smile dimming slightly. “What’s that?”

“Bucky kissed me,” he said, as it seemed smarter to rip off the band-aid in one go.

Peggy didn’t move a muscle. “Come again?”

“I uh…it happened this morning?” He shrugged, balling up the lint in his pockets, rolling the granules back and forth between his fingers. “He came over to apologize for last night, I guess. Or I think that’s why? I dunno. But I yelled at him because…well, it doesn’t matter. But like, we were fighting? And he just…you know. He kissed me. Out of nowhere! And I didn’t kiss him back or anything, but like…”

Steve trailed off when he saw Peggy’s face. She wasn’t smiling anymore, and there were two bright pink splotches of color on her cheeks.

“Peggy?” he chanced. “I’m so sorry. Like, I totally get if you’re mad—”

“That _weasel_ ,” she spat. “What the _fuck_?”

“I don’t know why he did it,” Steve said, the churning sickness in his stomach refusing to settle as he watched her face transform into pure fury. “He’s like…it’s just um…”

"What?" she spat. Oh, boy, she was _mad_.

“Like, I probably encouraged it? I dunno, I’ve had a crush on him for a really long time,” he rambled, the words spilling out before he could catch them and cradle his secret close. “It’s not like I’m gay! But I…I guess it’s…with Bucky…and so maybe I was…maybe I made him…I don’t…fuck—” He couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t asthma, just panic. Had he admitted that out loud? Had he just admitted that to _Peggy_? Fuck. Sure, he liked Peggy, but how well did he really _know_ her? Because, like, she lived with Sharon, and Sharon went to school with him, and oh God, oh God, oh—

“Steve.” Peggy’s voice was firm, cutting through the fog of terror, hand coming to clasp his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice strangled and heart pounding as he looked up to meet her eyes.

“You’re not the one who owes anyone an apology.”

“But I—”

“Let’s sit down?” Her response was remarkably measured, considering she was still holding herself tense as a live wire.

Steve nodded, sinking miserably onto his bed while she pulled out his desk chair, sitting across from him and reaching for his hands.

“Please don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he said when she touched him.

“Told me what?”

“About uh—” Still not able to say it out loud, Steve shrugged.

“Being bisexual?”

The way the word came so casually from her lips brought him up short. He could only manage a curt nod as he hunched over, shoulders around his ears. Hearing her say it—plainspoken; put forth like it was normal—was worse than knowing it was true, deep down inside.

“My uncle,” she went on after a moment’s pause. “My mum’s brother. He’s…his partner’s a bloke. Terry. And Terry’s been around since I was small.”

“It’s—“

“Christ, Steve, I’ve been in an all-girls school for four years now—there’s a bit of that about. One of my mates is a lesbian, actually.”

“She is?”

“Yes, she is. It’s not…” she shook her head. “I don’t give a shit that you’re bi.”

“What—”

“I mean, I _hope_ you're bi because if you're gay, I'm not—"

“I’m not!” he exclaimed. “I really…I like, you know. Everyone. Well, not _everyone_ , but…both. You. Whatever. Shit.”

“Right,” she said. “That’s fine. Honestly, Steve, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Then why’d you get so mad?”

She blinked at him as though it ought to be obvious. “Err, because your fucking jealous twat of a friend assaulted you?”

Assault seemed a strong word. Steve frowned. “I—he—”

“Look, Steve, you tell me you’ve got a crush on him, which…yeah, mate, that’s obvious. You talk about him like he hung the fucking moon. Obviously, he’s been leading you on for years, until you found someone else, so _now_ he thinks he can lay one on you. Fuck that.”

“That’s…yeah,” he said slowly. “But, like, I don’t think Bucky’s gay or anything? I mean, I’m not sure he even knew what he was doing.”

Peggy snorted, pointing her toes to the ground and using them to swing herself back and forth in the chair.

“He’s not!” Steve protested. “I mean, he makes out with girls all the time.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Steve.”

“He’s _not_ ,” he shot back, because if Bucky was gay, or bi, or whatever, and he had been all this time, but neither of them had acted on it? That was bullshit.

“So what if he is?” she replied. “You said it yourself, you have a crush on him.”

“Yeah, but that’s _different_.”

“Is it?”

“It’s—” he broke off with a scowl. “I dunno. Maybe.”

“You’re fucked off at him.”

“Is that like angry?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, I’m fucked off at him.”

“But if you weren’t fucked off at him, and he’d kissed you…” she trailed off.

“Nah,” he shrugged. “There’s no universe where I wouldn’t be fucked off.”

Peggy smiled, just a little. “Why’s that?”

“Because there’s no universe where you’re not my girlfriend and where it’s not, you know, _cheating_.”

Smile widening, she shrugged. “Hypothetically, though. Say there was that universe. You’d have been pleased that he kissed you, right?”

“I dunno. I guess.”

“Would you have kissed him back?”

"It's…maybe! Probably! It doesn't matter!" Turning his palms right-side-up, he gripped her forearms and pulled her closer. "I'm with you."

“That’s noble,” she said, looking down at the place where they were touching.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” she said, releasing his hands, then standing to flop down on the bed at his side. “But I appreciate you having the bollocks to tell me. For the record, I don’t think it’s cheating, but a lot of people wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, glancing at her, wishing his brain wouldn’t spark with pleasure upon noticing the way her dress rode up the _slightest_ bit on her thighs in that position. “I’m like, big on honesty.”

Peggy considered that, turning her head to the side to affix him with a pout. “I’m not some consolation prize for you now, right?”

“Nnnope,” he stammered, as she’d chosen that moment to drop her hand to his knee. “Uh.”

“How did Bucky kiss you?” she pressed.

“Peggy…”

“I need to know.”

"He uh." Steve swallowed. "We were fighting like I said. And uh, it got kinda…physical? He pinned me and just, you know. Kissed me."

“Oh.” Peggy considered that, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Show me?”

“Wha-huh?”

“Show me,” she repeated. “How Bucky kissed you.”

Steve’s face was hot enough to start a brush fire. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not…he was on top of me and holding me down and um, it doesn’t seem…I mean, you might not like it.”

“Try me.”

Steve knew he shouldn’t. Not with his mother down the hall, and his head still fucked up and swirling from what had happened with Bucky. But shit, Peggy was lying on his bed, wearing a short dress, with her hand on his leg. He was only human. So he took a deep breath and stood, facing the bed, knees pressed against hers, licking his lips while trying to ignore the fact that his dick was super into the idea of what was about to happen. “You uh…I gotta uh…straddle you, okay?”

“I already told you it’s fine,” she said.

His anxiety-addled brain might have been projecting, but he could have sworn he heard a tremor in her voice. "Right," he mumbled, shuffling onto the bed, so one knee was on either side of her hips, pressing against her soft curves. "I uh…his…I mean, my hands were up by my head?"

Never breaking eye contact, she lifted both hands, bringing them to rest by her temples, palms up, exposing the pale line of her underarm. He could see where the white, chalky residue of her deodorant had stained her dress, which was so sexy—so intimate—that he had to swallow twice before reaching up to slide his fingers through hers, pinning her in place.

It wasn’t the same, because Bucky had been gripping his wrists, which Steve had hated. He wouldn’t do that to her—wanted to give her the ability to push him off—but the position itself was enough. Being close to her. The smell of the deodorant and the perfume she wore mingling with the remnants of her day. A museum and a movie, Chinese food, and the hint of summer sweat on her skin.

He lowered his head to kiss her, hair falling like a curtain around them both. Peggy’s fingers flexed against his, squeezing tight as she deepened the kiss, tongue pressing against his own like a shared secret. After a moment, she arched her back, pushing at his hands. Steve sat back quickly, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Never better,” she grinned. “Try again?”

Far be it from him to deny the lady what she wanted.

 


	8. you're a nightmare

**And you've got it all wrong  
** **Yeah you're a nightmare to me  
** _-Pulp_

 

## 2005

The fact of the matter was that Peggy had gone to Brooklyn for work.

Granted, that fact was somewhat malleable, considering the work in question had brought her to Williamsburg, rather than Red Hook, the journey involving half an hour on the L-train, followed by a bit of a hike to a slap-dash studio made up of equal parts cheap drywall and cockroach shit. But the meeting had gone well, with a starry-eyed prospect gobsmacked over the idea of signing with Rebirth. Not as smart as he ought to have been about it, but that wasn’t unusual—most of them were too excited by the idea of fame and fortune to realize first-time contracts were shit and they really ought to have a lawyer take a look before signing their name on the dotted line. Peggy liked her job, she was _good_ at her job, but she wasn’t sentimental about her job: Rebirth was in the business of making money, and she was in the business of helping them do so. So while, on occasion, she might nudge some newbie—most often a young woman—in the direction of representation, she rarely did so for the trust funded men whose arrogance blinded them to the imbalance of power. In her experience, people like that rarely learned from being mollycoddled, while they nearly always took a lesson from a well-made mistake. This particular young man was of the latter sort—talented, pretty, with not much going on upstairs—so she left him with a contract and a couple of days to think it over.

After that, she reasoned that Brooklyn was simply a borough made up of neighborhoods, which made it easy to justify a quick hop to Red Hook.

Sure, she had an ulterior motive, but she wasn’t going to be subtle about it. Because if Bucky Barnes believed he could escape her friendship by pretending Steve was the only one who wanted to spend time with her, he had another thing coming.

Namely, a six-pack of Stella, purchased at a nearby bodega, which she carried in a brown paper bag as she crossed the street and buzzed up to their place, the sun just beginning to dip below the horizon.

For a few minutes, there was nothing. Then the sound of a window opening overhead.

Peggy craned her neck, smiling at the sight of Bucky’s tousled head and bleary-eyes.

“Uh, Peggy?”

“Hi,” she said, holding up the bag. “I was in the neighborhood. Beer?”

"…sure." Bucky disappeared; a few seconds later, the door buzzed open.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she found him leaning against the doorframe in a no-doubt hastily pulled-on pair of sweatpants riding low on his hips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and she could see the tell-tale creases of sheets on his skin, including a rather charming set of imprints on his cheek, as if he’d been clutching a pillow very tightly. No prosthetic, but then he probably didn’t sleep with it, and she quickly met his eyes, lest she be caught staring.

“What uh…hi. Steve’s not home,” he said, blowing some hair out of his eyes, his ponytail doing a piss-poor job of holding it back.

“I know,” she said amiably. “He told me he was working tonight.”

“How do you—?”

"We spoke earlier," she replied. She and Steve had frequently been speaking, as it happened. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

“Wha—uh, sure,” he agreed, stepping back and allowing her past him. She shifted the beer to her other hand, the action causing her shoulder to brush his arm. God, he smelled like an unmade bed—sleep warm, with a hint of sweat and something sweet.

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, dropping her bag to the ground. “Thought I might as well come by, as I’ve got Steve’s portfolio.”

“You guys can’t hire a messenger?” he asked, nudging the door shut with his hip as she toed her bag into the corner.

“Why spend the penny when you can walk?” she said primly. “Anyhow, I figured you’d be home. And I _did_ bring you beer for your trouble.”

“Yeah, I…” Bucky smiled, a rueful thing—half-bashful, half-pleased. “Steve just didn’t mention you were coming.”

“Ah, no, he wouldn’t have,” she agreed. “I assumed _you’d_ be here, but I never told him I was stopping by. Where’s your bottle opener?”

“Kitchen, but—”

Peggy didn’t give him the chance to protest, heading down the hall and through the living room to the kitchen, keeping up a steady stream of conversation as she walked. “If I’m imposing, I’ll leave as soon as I’ve had a drink. It’s _beastly_ hot out there. I’m disgusting.”

“It’s not that,” Bucky said, following her trail.

“Then what?” she asked, spotting the bottle opener in the form of a fridge magnet, pulling it off with ease.

“I just don’t know how much company I’m gonna be, is all,” he offered, hanging in the doorway, body angled in such a way that didn’t allow her to see his left side.

“Don’t need company, just a drink. You thirsty?”

“Yeah,” he said, offering her another one of those smiles. “Thanks. For the beer. I shoulda said that first.”

“You usually get there in the end,” she teased, reaching into the bag to pull out two bottles, popping the tops, then handing one to him. “But I’m sorry I didn’t give you any warning.”

“Noted.”

“It’s only...” she began, trailing off deliberately as she took a sip of her beer.

“What?”

“Mmm, well, you’d have found some excuse not to see me, right?” Might as well go for it, being as there were no bushes to beat around that she could see.

“Aw, c’mon, that’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” she said, allowing him his spluttered protest. “I wonder.”

“What’m I supposed to—you and Steve are always going out,” he mumbled. That was true enough—she and Steve had been to three shows together over the past couple weeks.

“Door goes both ways,” she said. “If you’re not keen on going out, you could have had me over.”

“I’m not…”

“What? Good company? Much fun? Or is it just that you don’t like me anymore?”

“Jesus, Maggie.”

“It’s fine. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

"I forgot how fucking blunt you are, kid," he muttered, taking a swig of his beer. "It's not that—I like you fine. I'm just…" He held the bottle aloft, gesturing at some far-flung sorrow. "You're Steve's…whatever."

“I’m Steve’s friend,” she agreed. “I’d like to be yours.”

“Does being your friend mean I gotta put up with random drop-ins, and you on my case all the time?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you like it,” she teased, relieved to see the smile on his face widen. Never one for delicacy, she wasn’t gifted at sparing feelings in the interest of smoothing things over. Bucky had once found that quality endearing, but he was different now; part of her had worried the bluntness might frighten him off rather than reignite their camaraderie.

“I like it,” he said. “Though a phone call wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I don’t have your number,” she said, leaning against the counter. “What were you doing, anyway?”

“Sleeping,” he muttered.

Peggy smirked, quirking a brow. "Were you now?"

“You got a dirty mind.”

“If I do, it’s your fault,” she replied. “All the same, I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Nah, it’s—” he shook his head, smile dimming. “I was uh…I’d been sleeping all day. Too long, probably.”

"Ah." There it was—the scab that needed picking. On the few occasions she'd seen Steve since his big confessional, he'd spilled more details about Bucky's circumstances. Including the fact that Bucky had been prescribed a regime of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication to deal with his post-traumatic stress disorder ("much better now," according to Steve), in addition to a therapist, whom he only occasionally saw, despite the regularly scheduled appointments. That was Steve's hardest battle—getting him to stick to his routine—because when Bucky fell into irregularities, he had a tendency to sleep all day, then sit up all night, fretting over everything from his VA benefits to his lack of health insurance. Plus, property taxes and prescription co-pays and anything else he could find to drive himself mad with guilt.

Of the two, Steve had always been the pragmatist. The strategist. Capable of compartmentalizing and prioritizing the river of shit in which he was always swimming upstream. Bucky, on the other hand, lived in the moment and took life as it came, adapting and internalizing the situations in which he found himself, for good or for ill. The thing was, the past eight years had been rather more ill than good, so Bucky had absorbed a lot of the blows, allowing the weight of their precarious financial situation to weigh heavy on his shoulders. Turning him into an anxiety-ridden insomniac. Which, for all Steve feigned nonchalance, obviously wore at his own health and sanity, agonizing over the fact that Bucky was balanced on the edge of a slippery slope. One false step, and over he'd go.

Peggy knew that slope. She’d been halfway down it before she began crawling her way back up, hand over hand, arriving at the top with clenched fists and blood in her teeth.

She had been, as it were, in the fucking neighborhood.

“You hungry?” Bucky asked, changing the subject.

“You cooking?”

A grin, followed by a shrug and a sidelong glance in her direction as he took another swallow of beer. “Yeah. Nothing fancy.”

"It's fancy enough if you're making it," she said, taking a seat on one of the two barstools they'd shoved beneath a high counter along the far wall. The counter hadn't been there when this had been Sarah's kitchen, and she could just about picture the installation debacle—Steve fitting it in place, Bucky scoffing at his handiwork. The two of them cursing and kissing while being utterly domestic and terribly happy.

It was a nice thought.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later—having donned his prosthetic, along with a plain, grey t-shirt—Bucky presented her with a plate of hash browns topped with two fried eggs, garnished with a red sauce she couldn’t place.

“It’s harissa,” he said when he saw her looking, sliding into the second barstool. “Steve got a jar from work one time, and we liked it so much I figured out how to make it—cheaper that way.”

“Never heard of it.” Peggy reached for her fork, spearing a mouthful of potato, which she took care to drag through the sauce before sticking it in her mouth.

“It’s spic—oh shit, kid, that was a big bite.”

“Fuck!” Peggy yelped around the already-burning mouthful, grabbing her beer to take a long swallow in a frantic attempt to cool the lava currently engulfing her tongue.

“I was trying to warn you,” he said, and he was laughing at her, the prat. “I use hotter peppers than the recipe calls for, cause Steve likes ‘em. But uh. A little goes a long way.”

“Christ’s cunt,” she managed, voice hoarse as she put down the bottle.

“That good, huh?”

“I—” The attempt at a response set off a coughing fit, so she was forced to down the rest of her drink, Bucky laughing his head off the whole time. “Oh, fuck off,” she muttered, as good-naturedly as she could.

“Jesus, your _face_ ,” he said, giggling.

“Oh, come now,” she said, waiting until he’d tipped his own beer past the point of no return before speaking. “It’s not as if you’ve never seen me red-faced and gagging.”

Bucky choked, spluttering and spitting most of what he’d swallowed onto his shirt. “Peggy!”

“Serves you right,” she said sweetly, passing him a paper towel.

“That’s—we never did…I just meant, I never saw you so flustered!”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“I—” he laughed. “Shit, I smell like a bar.”

“As do I. I’d say that calls for a second round.”

She went to grab them each another beer, then sat down to eat her dinner with rather more caution, using the harissa as an accent rather than the centerpiece.

“You’re good at this,” she said when they were nearly finished, watching Bucky absorb the compliment, give her a small smile, then settle his face into a neutral mask. “Seriously, you are.”

"I got a lot of spare time is all. You sit around bored long enough, you find shit to do."

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing, only—” she shrugged. “Seems a shame to waste so much talent on _Steve_.”

That got him laughing, and he cocked a brow, bottle held to his lips. “Steve likes it.”

“Steve’d eat shit on a shingle and ask for seconds. This—the meals you make? I’ve eaten at Michelin-star restaurants that weren’t half so delicious.”

Bucky pulled a swallow of his beer, ring finger tapping against the glass before he put the bottle down. "I'm just fucking around."

“You ever thought about fucking around with a purpose?” she pressed.

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ve got money for school, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but—” Bucky’s cheeks had gone pink, and he inclined his head toward the prosthetic claw that was resting by his plate. “C’mon.”

“What?” she countered, unimpressed with the deflection.

“Who’s gonna—you know.”

“Plenty of people, believe me,” she said dryly. “From a cynical marketing perspective, you’re a wet dream for some admissions office.”

“Oh, Jesus, that’s all I need,” he mumbled, though he was smiling.

“I’m not joking. I’ve just watched you put together that meal from nothing—you’re quick enough with the prosthetic when you want to be. Besides, I’ve got a couple friends who are chefs, and from what I’ve heard, it’s more about the size of your err…knives, than how many fingers you’ve got using them.”

“Peggy…”

“Since when are you such a prude?” she teased. “I’m only saying, there’s nothing stopping you at least _investigating_ culinary schools.”

His brow furrowed, and he lifted his chin as if holding it higher might somehow undermine her point. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“I’m listening—enlighten me.”

Bucky stabbed his fork through a big piece of potato, shoving it in his mouth, then speaking around it in a manner reminiscent of his sixteen-year-old self, all big, brave surety over nothing at all. “My endurance is shot to shit, first of all. I get tired easy. I hurt all the time, so I can’t, you know, _be_ in school. Not without a lot of work, anyway. Plus, what am I gonna do when I graduate? I’d lose any job I got as soon as I got it, fuck something up, or be a liability and—”

“At least you’d know,” she said, throwing the switch to divert the train of self-doubt before it could fly off the tracks.

“What?” he said, tone sharp and guarded. Peggy would need to tread carefully.

The thing of it was, though, he hadn’t said he didn’t _want_ to do any of those things. Hadn’t said he was incapable. If he’d said that, she would have taken him at his word. But all he’d done was list the mental blocks he’d been building a wall from for eight years—big, hulking cinderblocks that precluded the possibility of trying. And while he hadn’t mentioned the surgery, she imagined the not wanting of _that_ was a weight tipping the scales firmly in favor of the status quo.

“Let’s—alright, let’s look at the worst case scenario, then,” she said, keeping things casual as she lifted the paper towel to wipe her mouth. “Let’s say you flunk out of school, or you lose a job. So then you’re back to where you are right now. That’s not terrible. Could be worse.”

“If you like feeling like shit.”

“Sure. But you’re already a champ at feeling like shit. Gold medal winner, Bucky Barnes. So you might as well give yourself a _reason_.”

“Hey!”

“I’m not saying it won’t be difficult to try,” she said. “Look, you’ve got all the reason in the world to feel badly. Nobody’s denying that. All I’m saying—as your friend, mind, and someone who knew you well, once upon a time—is that from where I’m sitting, you’ve still got plenty left to offer. So it makes me quite sad to see you sitting here, lonely, feeling as though you might as well not bother.”

“That,” he muttered after a moment’s pause. “Is some Pollyanna _bullshit_.”

“Hardly,” she smirked.

“They oughta let you write motivational speeches, Maggie.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” he said, grinning, which had to be a good sign. “Real cheesy shit like that sells. Jesus H. Christ, as if I don’t know I’m a lazy son of a bitch—I see guys down the VA with ten times the problems I got, working a hundred times harder.”

“You don’t find that at all inspiring?”

“Nope. Just makes me feel worse about doing less with the hand I got dealt.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t make you smile.”

“I’m not smiling,” she lied, looking at her lap.

“Then that’s a fucked up frown, kid.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m a little bit funny,” he countered. “Finish your dinner—I’m done talking about this stuff.”

That was fair. Peggy picked up her fork, taking another couple of bites before shifting the subject. “So, I was wondering…”

“What?”

“Steve says you’ve still got shit taste in music.”

“Steve _would_.”

“Mmm. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I need to know: do you, or do you not, listen to Nickelback?”

The tips of Bucky’s ears went bright red; Peggy knew she had him cornered. They spent the rest of the meal debating the relative merits of Bucky’s favorite bands (which were all shit), before retiring to the living room with a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies, and a third beer each.

That was how Steve found them at precisely 8:27, when he returned from work, stopping in the living room doorway, surprised by the scene. By then, Bucky had sprawled on the couch, while Peggy sat at his feet so he could instruct her in the finer points of some ridiculous video game involving fast cars and big-breasted women with enormous guns. She had been fascinated by the one-handed controller he used, though he’d dismissed it as “from my parents” without giving her anything more to go on, and she hadn’t wanted to press. Not when she was tipsy, as the third beer had turned into a fourth somewhere along the line.

“Steve!” Bucky crowed.

“Hi!” Peggy grinned.

“Hi back,” Steve said as he surveyed them. “Did I know you were coming over?”

“I brought your portflo...port _flo_ …your shit.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve glanced at Bucky, raising a brow. “Buck?”

“Peggy brought beer. We drank it all. But there’s still Yuengling in the fridge.”

“Good news gets better all the time,” Steve replied. “I’m gonna change and heat something up—you two got room for a third?”

“More’s the better,” Peggy said, wrinkling her nose when Bucky took the opportunity to blow the head off an alien of indiscriminate origin that had been sneaking up on her character. “Uck.”

“Saved your _ass_ , Carter,” he crowed.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said, disappearing in the direction of their bedroom.

Ten minutes later found him settling next to Bucky with a plate of leftovers. He had a faint whiff of tequila about him, too, as if he’d had a shot or two in the kitchen, in the interest of catching up. Brilliant. Steve was a brilliant, tactical genius.

“How was work, dear?” Bucky drawled as Steve took his seat, moving his legs to make room. Peggy looked over her shoulder just in time to catch him leaning over to give Steve a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Long,” Steve said, twirling some noodles around his fork.

“Don’t—aww, poor Stevie—Maggie, _don’t.”_

Certain things hadn’t changed—Bucky in an altered state meant Bucky with a propensity for affection, as well as an inability to focus on any one thing. It had been cute when they were kids, and remained cute now, even if he _was_ annoyed that Peggy had taken advantage of his distraction to steal a gun.

“Snooze you lose, Barnes.”

“Steve. She is _cheating_.”

“I don’t think that’s cheating, pal,” Steve said, voice muffled around his food. “Jesus, I’ve been dreaming about these all day.”

“They smell glorious,” Peggy agreed.

“Drunken noodles. Buck makes ‘em all the time—”

"Yes, he's quite the chef," Peggy said, leaning her head back, so the crown of her scalp rested against Steve's calf, giving Bucky a pointed look.

He responded by knocking her in the hip with his foot as if she had betrayed some great confidence.

“Ow!” she protested

“Bucky!” Steve exclaimed.

“Foot slipped,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Dangerous down here,” she muttered.

“Join us, then,” Steve replied, patting the empty cushion on his right side.

Peggy liked that idea, and she rose to her feet, slightly unsteady, before flopping down next to them. “Oh, bit dizzy.”

“Alright there, Frank?” Steve teased.

“Perfectly lovely, yes, thank you.”

“She’s _drunk_ ,” Bucky declared.

“So’re you!”

“Yeah, but I’m bigger, so you’re…drunker.”

“Sound, um. Logic,” she said with a smile, head lolling against the couch.

“It’s cause you’re the little one now,” Bucky continued. “Steve’s bigger than you, shorty.”

“Shut up.”

“What?” He laughed, reaching over to pat the top of her head. “S’nothing bad. You’re just…little.”

“Bucky, I swear—” Steve stifled a laugh, then leaned over to place his half-eaten dinner on the coffee table. “Sorry, Peg. He’s as affectionate as a leg-humping dog when he’s drunk.”

“Oh, I remember,” she said, taking Bucky’s hand and pulling it into her lap, where (with an idea that could only have come from her Bad Idea Brain), she began massaging his palm.

“M’not a _dog_ ,” Bucky grumbled, the statement belied by his actions when Peggy hit a sore spot, and he groaned before shutting his eyes.

“See?” Steve grinned. “Might as well like…thump his leg.”

“Shuddup.”

“I could stop,” she offered.

“Nah.” Bucky cracked open one eye, looking her over, then dropped his head to Steve’s shoulder. “S’nice. Keep it up.”

It was nice, in its way. Intimate, even. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that, brain muddled by nostalgia run wild. Christ, they weren’t kids anymore—Bucky and Steve had a life, and that life didn’t include her. Not like this. Being close to them was merely some drunken fragment of the past.

“My poor Bucky,” Steve murmured, turning his head to press a peck against Bucky’s forehead. Bucky allowed it, then leaned up, seeking a different sort of kiss. Peggy’s breath hitched when Steve gave it to him, their mouths meeting with such casual familiarity that her fingers stopped moving.

Jesus, they were _married_.

She'd known that, of course. Had watched them move around one another in comfortable domesticity. Very much in love, the same as they'd been for the majority of their lives. But seeing them kiss like that? Being _allowed_ to see them kiss like that? It uncovered something long-buried. Excavated some dormant place within that longed for that sort of connection. Left her peering through ancient dust at something she might have had, once, a long time ago, if she’d let herself show some tiny bit of vulnerability when she had the chance.

Too fucking late.

Bucky broke the kiss, eyes locking onto hers, and it was only then that Peggy realized he must have noticed when she stopped rubbing. Must have felt the tension in her fingers.

She swallowed, for once in her life at a loss for words.

“Steve,” Bucky said thoughtfully.

“Mmm?”

“Kinda think Maggie wants a kiss, too.”

A smile caught on Steve’s lips, widening as he turned his head, blue eyes seeking brown. “Y’know, Buck. I think you might be right.”

“C’mere,” he said.

It happened fast. Bucky sat up, leaned over, and lowered his mouth to hers before she could think twice, tasting of beer and chocolate and the faint remnants of harissa.

She ought to have protested. Ought to have brought it to an end, breaking the kiss with a laugh and some line about Maggie not wanting a kiss at all.

She didn’t, though.

Because it had been a long fucking time since anyone had called her Maggie.

When Bucky pulled away, Steve was right there. Warm hand on her chin, turning her toward him with that lovely confidence he now possessed. Kissing her like someone who knew what a proper kiss should be. Tongues touching for a brief second before he released her. Peggy sat back, swimming in the shallows of their drunken lack-of-inhibition.

They were both looking at her.

Someone had to break the silence.

“Arseholes,” she swore, a half-hysterical bark of laughter escaping.

That started Steve laughing, one hand falling to her knee, while the other reached for Bucky’s, twining their fingers together. “How are _we_ assholes?” he countered.

“You just—” _You planned that. You do it often. You have a rotating cadre of people coming through your bed, playing the part of your third. Playing, playing, never staying. Steve and Bucky and fill-in-the-blank._ “We’re drunk.” And she wasn’t the novelty she’d been at sixteen.

“Yeah, we are,” Bucky agreed. “Doesn’t change the fact that you needed kissing.”

She saw the challenge in his eyes—daring her to make this awkward. To dissect it. To overthink and run away, the same as she had before.

She wasn't a fool, nor was she as naive now as she'd been then. Complicating friendships with fucking never ended well, and she'd only just gotten them back. An errant kiss was fine and good, but that had to be the end of it. She had to be the grown-up before things descended to a place from which they couldn't return.

So, she smiled. Shrugged. Reached out her hand to push his nose into a snout. “You’re funny,” she informed him. “It’s late. I ought to get home.”

“No way,” Steve said, face scrunching in protest.

“Yes, way,” she echoed.

“No, Frank. It’s—” he frowned. “The couch pulls out. Stay.”

“Steve…”

“Peggy.”

“Bucky,” Bucky interjected, lest they forget him. “Just stay, weirdo. I don’t need you getting on the wrong train and ending up in Howard Beach, or whatever.”

“Is that a possibility?” she asked, trying to ignore how appealing the offer was—a warm blanket and a bed rather than fighting transit alone and intoxicated.

“I’ll make you pancakes,” he offered, batting his eyelashes like some coy ingenue.

"Oh, well, if there are _pancakes_ ,” she said, finding it easy enough to acquiesce to such an offer.

In the end, she let Steve pull out the sofa bed. Helped him make it with their spare sheets. Fell into it, fully clothed, and watched as the two of them retreated to their bedroom, where she heard them talking in low voices in the scant minutes before she drifted off.

The next morning, Bucky made pancakes.

No-one mentioned the kisses.

 

## 1993

Peggy knew two things for sure: she hated Bucky Barnes, and she was falling hard for Steve Rogers.

Which put her in a conundrum, considering that Steve loved Bucky. Or, at least, he loved Bucky when they weren’t in a fight. Which they were. Because Bucky had kissed Steve. Priggish, swaggering, asshole Bucky had _kissed_ her bloody boyfriend. Pinned him down and planted one on him and Christ, what a wanker.

She hated him. _Hated_ him.

So it ought to have been easy to leave it alone. Let his and Steve’s friendship fall apart without batting an eye. It wasn’t her fault Bucky had kissed Steve, after all.

Except… _except_ …there was that pesky little Steve _loving_ Bucky problem. That best friend thing; that more-than-best-friend thing. Whatever their strange circumstances were, Peggy was sure Steve hadn’t admitted it to himself yet. Shit, he’d hardly been able to admit his sexuality to her. But she wasn’t blind—hero worship and friendship aside, one generally didn’t kiss one’s mates without there being some underlying tension. Provocation. Desire.

What the bleeding hell she was supposed to _do_ with that understanding, she hadn't a clue. All she knew was that Steve's confession had left her in a piss-poor mood, tossing and turning all night upon returning from his flat. And sure, kissing on his bed had been excellent, especially with her hands pinned, which she'd liked more than she cared to admit. Mostly because she knew she was stronger than him—knew she could force him off if she wanted. But she hadn't wanted. Instead, she'd liked him holding her down. Liked the entirely-too-obvious press of his erection against her belly when he got close.

Fuck, she _liked_ him. And he liked her, of that she was sure. But he liked Bucky, too, and that fact had kept her up all fucking night.

With a sigh, she turned onto her side, curling around the comforter, and huffing a groan into her pillow before cracking one eye to glance at the alarm clock. Six-thirty. Shit—she hadn’t slept a wink. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed all thoughts of Steve from her head.

Tried to, anyway. She managed a half-decent doze when, half an hour later, her Aunt Susan knocked on the door.

"Peggy?" she said, voice soft. Susan wasn't related to her by blood, but she liked her a damn sight more than most of her blood relations. Because Susan was a good mum, which explained why Sharon was so lovely.

Rolling over, Peggy stared at the ceiling of the tiny guest room. “I’m up.”

“Your mum’s on the phone. If you like, you can take it in Stu’s office?”

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, before calling out a bright, “just coming!” and pushing back the covers. She pulled on a robe, opening the door to find the hallway empty of aunts and cousins. Sharon was probably asleep, considering fucking _Amanda_ had forgotten about the time difference. Typical, really.

Peggy sequestered herself in Uncle Stu's office, reaching for the receiver of the heavy, old-fashioned rotary telephone sitting atop the ornate, wooden desk. "Lo?" No response. "Hel _-lo_ , mum?”

“Is that you, Peggy?” Amanda’s voice came crisp and clean down the line, as if surprised she was there at all. Christ. “You sound awful—have you got a cold?”

Peggy heard the soft ‘click’ indicating Aunt Susan had hung up the receiver in her bedroom, so she sank to the ground in front of the desk, bringing the phone with her. Trust her mother not to waste any opportunity for a nag. “No. You’ve just woken me.”

“You’re never there when I call in the evening,” she said. “And I’ve an engagement later today, so you’ll have to put up with it.”

Peggy rolled her eyes, though it was true that she was rarely around. The limited availability was by design—ever since arriving in Brooklyn, she’d filled her days with things that involved being out of the house as often as possible, whether that was time spent with Sharon, or Steve, or on her own. Whatever she could do to keep busy; to keep her subconscious from traveling back all those months replaying scenes from the night of the accident over and over again.

“What do you need, mum?” she sighed.

“I’ve got the details of your flight home. You’ll need to write them down.”

Peggy froze, body going rigid. It was barely the end of _June_. “What?”

“We’ve arranged for you to come home the second week of August,” she continued. “Time enough to have you fitted for a uniform—I’ve got your measurements from last term, though I’ve no doubt you’ve been eating plenty of sweets—”

Trust Amanda. Peggy gritted her teeth. “What _uniform_?”

“For school, you silly sausage. Your father’s managed to secure you a place at Oakmont.”

“Where the fuck—”

“Don’t you dare,” she barked, cheerful tone evaporating in an instant. “You’re lucky they’re taking you at all, but they’re used to delinquent—”

“I want to stay here!” she blurted, words tumbling out before she could stop them, careful plans laid to ruin by one hasty sentence. There had been an _order_ to things—she had been planning on talking to Aunt Susan first, as she was a soft touch, using her to convince Uncle Stu that she ought to be allowed to stay. To go to school with Sharon, finish things out in the city. Work hard, get into some American college. Never see her parents again.

“What?” Amanda said sharply. “Don’t be stupid, Peggy.”

“But mum, I’ve thought about it, and—”

“Absolutely not,” she said with icy firmness. “Your aunt and uncle have gone above and beyond for you, so you’ll not be imposing one second longer than you have to. Time at Oakmont will do you good—not quite the academics of St. Elmo’s, but it’s stricter, which can’t hurt, so—”

“I’m not doing it!” she yelped, knowing she sounded like a petulant child, a whine rising in her throat.

“Don’t interrupt me.”

“But _mum_.”

“But nothing. I’m not here to debate this. You’ll have missed—”

“Fuck you!”

“Margaret _Elizabeth_!”

“You can’t drag me onto a fucking plane!” she said, voice high and hysterical. “You _can’t_. I’ve got rights!”

“ _Do_ continue with the hysterics, madam, I’ve _so_ missed the tantrums.”

“I don’t care! I’ll get myself expelled again, and—”

“And what?” Amanda said coolly. “You’ll shock us all by failing at living up to your potential? Pardon me, _continue_ failing.”

The words hit Peggy like a slap, and tears smarted in her eyes. “That’s not _fair_. I—”

“You are sixteen years old, miss. Life’s not fair, I know that as well as anyone. You’ll be on that plane.”

“Or what? You’re going to kidnap me?”

“Appealing as the idea might be, I can’t kidnap my own daughter,” she said, a crackle coming across the line. “And you are mine for a bit longer yet. So you’ll come home, you’ll behave, and I won’t hear another word on the matter. As for—”

Peggy slammed the phone into the cradle and burst into heaving sobs, the tears a rare, private indulgence that left her eyes red-rimmed and her head sore. Fuck Amanda. Fuck England. Fuck the home that was no longer a home, schools full of spoiled twats, and all the pretentious classist horse shit that came along with all of them.

It took ten minutes for her to cry herself out, sobs reduced to sniffles by the time Sharon arrived—no doubt sent by Susan as an emissary—pushing open the door, concern etched on her face as she stood there in her too-long pajama bottoms and a faded t-shirt with a cartoon monkey on the front, proudly proclaiming that she had once visited Washington D.C.

“Peggy?” she asked, hesitant, crossing to the couch where she had curled up at one end, pillow hugged to her stomach. “Aw, shit. What happened?”

“She’s such a cunt,” she muttered, knowing Sharon wouldn’t need to ask who.

Sharon immediately pulled her into a hug. Pure American sentimentality; Peggy was grateful for it.

“Sh-she bought me a _fucking_ plane ticket,” she said around a hiccup.

"Fuck," Sharon whispered because she had been Peggy's co-conspirator on the plan, helping her figure out the best way of approaching Susan and Stu. "We can still try…"

“I’ve cocked it up,” she said on a shuddering exhale. “Amanda’s gone mental—there’s no way she’ll agree to it now.”

“Oh, Peg—”

“August. Bloody _August_. God, that’s hardly any time at all.”

“It’s some time,” she offered. “We can work on it—I could talk to my parents for you.”

Peggy shrugged, swiping a hand across her running nose. “It won’t matter. And…oh, fuck, I’m going to have to tell Steve.” As far as Steve knew, she was staying, Peggy having been so convinced of that fact that she’d insinuated she’d be attending school with him in the autumn.

“Oh, man,” Sharon said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Peggy shook her head, thoughts lingering on Steve. About how unhappy she was going to make him. About how unhappy leaving him was going to make her. Because she’d never felt for anyone the things she felt for him, only now there was going to be a goddamn ocean separating them. Leaving them lonely.

Except, lonely wasn’t quite the right word for Steve.

Peggy would be lonely, sure, but Steve had a back-up plan, even if he didn’t realize it yet. Steve had _Bucky_.

Sitting there, gut wrenching in misery, she could nearly imagine it: the way Bucky would sidle in once she was gone, filling the gaps left behind. The way they'd slot together, perfectly fitted, already matched.

The way Steve would forget about her.

But also, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Steve would be lonely, too.

Because Steve was still angry with Bucky over the kiss and the way he’d treated Peggy in the restaurant. Which meant there was every possibility the rift would continue to widen, with or without her, leaving them at odds with one another when they started school. Leaving Steve as alone as she would be. As miserable as she would be.

That wasn’t allowed to happen.

Because Steve deserved to be happy, even if that happiness wasn’t with her. She liked him too much to resign him to that fate, and as she reached up to wipe her eyes, she realized that Steve’s happiness was something within her power to grant, or at least nudge in the right direction. She’d have to be the bigger person, of course—swallow her pride. But she could be magnanimous when she wanted to; she could hold her nose and take her medicine for Steve’s sake.

Clearing her throat, she gave Sharon a half-smile. “Stupid question, but you used to date Bucky, right?”

Sharon raised a brow. “Uh. Date’s making more of it than what it was, but sure.”

“Do you happen to know where he lives?”

 

* * *

 

At precisely nine o’clock, Peggy stood in front of a nondescript apartment block less than a quarter mile from her aunt and uncle’s place. The block itself was well-maintained, in contrast to Steve’s neighborhood, with a fenced-in park across the street and a decent-looking coffeeshop on the corner. Bucky, according to Sharon, lived with his family in apartment 3F, so she girded her loins and took a deep breath before pressing that particular button.

Thirty seconds later, a young girl’s voice came through the speaker. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m looking for Bucky?”

“Who may I say is calling,” the voice continued with a lisp that made it sound like ‘shay.’

“My name’s Peggy Ca—”

She was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, a muffled, "…not allowed to answer the door!" from a Voice Of Authority, then that same authority-voice coming over the intercom. "May I help you?"

“I’m looking for Bucky,” she repeated. “It’s ah…I’m Peggy? Carter? Sharon’s cousin?”

“Hang on a second.” The intercom clicked off. Peggy stepped back to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Then: “he’ll be right down,” followed by another click.

It wasn’t exactly rolling out the red carpet, but then, the last time she’d seen Bucky, she’d thrown a milkshake on him.

He emerged a few minutes later, opening the heavy front door of his building and stepping onto the stoop, dressed a pair of navy blue trackies and a t-shirt boasting the name of his and Steve’s school, shaggy hair mussed and tangled, eyes drooping as if he’d just been shouted out of bed by an irate mum.

Peggy could relate.

“Uh, hey,” he said, voice scratchy, eyeing her with no small amount of suspicion.

“Hi. I need to speak with you.”

“Uh. About what?” He was nervous, she realized, stepping away from the door and letting it fall shut behind him, fingers twitching as he pushed them through his hair. “My ma’s cleaning, sorry—she won’t let anyone upstairs.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t invited.”

“Just…c’mon,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the small park, which held a weather-beaten picnic table attached to a lamppost by a rusted chain. Not quite Kew Gardens, but it would do for a chat, so she followed him across the street to sit on the table top, feet on the bench. Bucky stayed standing, eyes never quite meeting hers, keeping a respectful distance.

“I know what you did,” she said pointedly.

That made him flinch, head jerking, pink tongue flicking out to lick pouting lips. “I—what?”

“You owe Steve an apology.”

Blue eyes blinked, and he frowned before repeating, “…what?”

“In my experience,” she continued. “Kissing people when they’re in no position to refuse you is generally frowned upon. Especially when you’re _bigger_ than the person you’re kissing. So if I were you, I’d apologize to him. And I’d mean it.”

“I don’t…” Bucky frowned, folding and unfolding his arms. “Aren’t you pissed at me?”

“Of course I am. But I’m angry on Steve’s behalf rather than my own.”

“Oh.”

"The thing is—I'm not threatened by you," she said, going for blasé as she reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. Saying it out loud fortified her certitude of the fact, though it had taken her the better part of the night to realize it was the truth. Because Steve liked her. He'd owned up to the kiss—despite having done nothing wrong—with complete honesty. He'd _chosen_ her, even with his confused feelings toward Bucky. Again and again, he’d chosen her.

So no, she wasn’t threatened by this tall, bleary-eyed wally standing before her with a grease mark staining the hem of his shirt.

“Uh. Okay?”

“Mmm.” She lit her cigarette. “Thing is, though? You’re threatened by me.”

Bucky snorted.

“Because you’re in love with him.”

“I’m _not_ —” Bucky scoffed, the spluttering indignity a damning indicator.

“What? Not in love with him? Not gay?”

“Shut up,” he snarled, glancing around.

“Jesus, and they say it’s not a river in Egypt.”

“What?”

“Denial.”

It was a terrible joke; it wasn’t a joke at all. Bucky’s brow furrowed, the initial terror fading as he shook his head. “It’s. I’m not…I mean, it’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked, holding out the pack to offer him one.

He chewed on his full bottom lip, then took a step forward, taking the proffered cigarette as well as her lighter. “It’s uh. It’s not…I mean, the feelings or…whatever. It’s just Steve.”

“Alright,” she said, though she only half believed him.

“I like girls,” he said, scowl deepening as he lit up.

“I’ve noticed. Girls like you, too.”

Bucky squinted. “You’re kinda weird.”

“I might be.”

“It’s…did you come over here just to tell me to apologize?”

“No,” she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I assume you’re intelligent enough to do that on your own.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’ve a proposition for you.”

Eyebrow arching, Bucky looked intrigued. “Uh. Okay?”

“First of all, let me just say that I don’t give a toss if you’re gay, or bi, or whatever else you might be.”

“I’m not—”

“Fuck, what did I _just_ say?”

“Yeah, but…” he shrugged. “I dunno. Nevermind.”

“Look,” she went on. “You and I, we’re not one another’s biggest fans.”

Bucky snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

“Yes, _thank_ you. However, we do have Steve in common. Correct?”

“Sure.”

“The way I see it, this fight with you is making him miserable, as is the fact that you and I don’t get on. So—” she paused, deliberating whether or not to tell him she was leaving, before deciding Steve should be the first to know. “—you and I ought to try and get on for his sake. Therefore, I’m proposing a truce.”

“I don’t…” Bucky shook his head. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

Her initial nervousness turned to hardened steel in her veins. She’d thrown a milkshake at him for insinuating something like that before, but this felt different—like genuine confusion. “Because he’s too much of a gentleman to throw me over for you, though—” not wanting to betray Steve’s confidence, she shrugged. “Whether or not he _would_ is his own business. But the way I see it, romantically or not, he adores you. Which means you probably aren’t a _complete_ knobhead. Despite _all_ the evidence to the contrary.”

Bucky nearly smiled. “I’m uh, I’m not, actually. We just…got off on the wrong foot?”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You’re a jealous minger. However, bygones being bygones, I’m willing to set that aside if you are.”

“I—” he bit his lip. “Yeah. And I’m, uh, I know you might not believe me, but I’m sorry. For the diner. Calling you—well. You know.”

“Thank you,” she said, allowing him that absolution. “Steve and I are planning on being at his flat Monday evening—Sarah’s working.”

“Oh.”

“You ought to come over for a bit.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Bucky considered her offer, and it was hard to get a read on him. Steve wore his feelings on his sleeve, but Bucky was inscrutable, deeper thoughts hidden behind a facade of apathy. “I…yeah. Cool.”

“You’ll come?”

“Sure.”

“Brilliant.”

“And uh…” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the other thing, too.”

“For kissing my boyfriend, you mean?”

He had the good grace to blush. “Yeah.”

“I’m not the one you ought to be apologizing to,” she reminded. “All the same, you’re forgiven on my part. And I’m sorry for throwing a milkshake at you.”

“Yeah, well,” he grinned. “Bygones, right?”

“Right.” Rising to her feet, she hopped to the ground. “I’ll let you get back to bed.”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “Ma has me on toilet scrubbing duty.”

“How thrilling.”

"Yeah, it's—" he hesitated, studying her face in a way she found somewhat disconcerting.

“What?” she asked, hackles rising.

“Just…” he shrugged, and for a moment she thought he might genuinely be concerned. ”Are you okay?”

She looked away. “Perfectly. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno. Your eyes are just…you know. Red.” He gestured at her face, then jammed his hand into his pocket, hunch-shouldered as Steve.

“Oh,” she said, absolving him of his awkwardness while surprisingly touched by his concern. “It’s allergies. I’m forever sniffling—must be something here we haven’t got.”

"Ah." He offered her a smile, then tossed his head, the cascade of hair falling back into his eyes. "Steve has uh…these allergy pills. Ask him—I forget what they're called. But it's good shit. Helps him out."

“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Sure,” he shrugged. “I…I’ll see you Monday?”

“Monday. I’ll let Steve know to expect you.”

 


	9. suffocate me

**Suffocate me with indecision** **  
****Suffocate me with who comes first** **  
** _-Angelfish_

 

## 2005

Peggy had gotten all the way into Bucky’s head.

Although, when he thought about it, that had probably been her goal. Because Maggie was a lot of things, but above all else, she was intentional. Considered. Careful.

Which meant that her showing up, beers in hand, feigning the excuse of Steve's portfolio so she could spark a conversation that got Bucky thinking? Yeah, he just bet she knew precisely what she was doing. Peggy knows best, so he had better just do as she said. Or, well, she hadn't _said_ it outright, but she’d implied. In fact, Bucky had been the one doing all the talking. Making all the excuses. All she had done was point out the things he already knew—the things he was scared to admit. Like, the reality that he was scared shitless of trying and failing. That he preferred the status quo to admitting there might be other options. Therapy had taught him that much; he was conflict-averse, resistant to change, and endlessly worried about letting people down. However, knowing one’s worst impulses didn’t make one capable of fixing them, so hearing those impulses parroted back to him by Peggy rather than his therapist was disconcerting, to say the least.

Definitely had an impact.

Definitely had him thinking about what he wanted out of life, long after the night the three of them spent together.

Which, that was a whole _other_ thing.

The kiss. The second kiss. The so-called sleepover.

The kisses had been strange and wonderful, and out of nowhere. Or, not out of _nowhere_ , just not what he'd expected to find himself doing. Sure, it had been his idea, but it had been on an impulse, with the most definite feeling of ‘ _I want to’_ driving the request. The strangest fucking notion, really, because he hadn't kissed anyone who wasn't Steve in twelve years, and he had never expected to kiss anyone who wasn't Steve ever again. Not even the girl who was the last person he'd kissed who _wasn’t_ Steve.

Which wasn’t to say he and Steve were saints. Shit, he’d looked. They’d both looked. They’d spent several years apart, after all—Bucky serving, Steve in college—and on those long, lonely nights on the other side of the world, he’d certainly had thoughts. Inclinations. Steve had no doubt been feeling the same way at home, out at bars or shows with his college friends. A pretty face, a flirty smile, who _wouldn’t_ glory in that sort of attention? But when it came down to taking that irreversible next step? Nah—they both knew better than to give up a sure thing for something fleeting. As far as Bucky was concerned, there was nothing in the world better than Steve, with all his tenuously twined imperfections. Hard to reconcile fucking over someone you’d loved for more than half your life for the sake of a screw.

But with Peggy? That had been different. That had been both of them, together, making a choice, though Bucky had been the one to pose the suggestion. How could he not? She’d looked so sweet, sitting at Steve’s side, half-drunk and staring at them wide-eyed, Bucky’s hand in her lap. He’d wanted her. Wanted them both. Just like before. So he’d declared his intentions. And what happened then, well, it’d happened.

When he and Steve talked about it, having left Peggy under a blanket on the pull-couch, they’d been almost shy together. Nervous about being the first to bring it up. Steve had twined his arms around Bucky’s waist, kissing a line up his sternum before mumbling against his collarbone, “what was that all about?”

Bucky shrugged, kissing the top of his head in return. “Dunno.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he smiled, caught out. “She looked pretty. Like she wanted to be kissed.”

“Double bullshit. She always looks pretty.”

“Then…I dunno, Steve. You haven’t thought about it since you two’ve been hanging out?”

“I mean, sure,” he said. “It’d be hard not to. But I didn’t know you’d been thinking about it, too.”

“Is it weird that we are? Thinking about her, I mean.”

“Kinda. She’s not—and _we’re_ not.”

“Not what?”

“Not…” A sigh, nose bumping against Bucky’s scarred shoulder before giving it a gentle bite. “We don’t even know if she’d be—”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Told you—she was pretty, and I wanted to.”

“Oh.” There was a smile in Steve’s voice. “And you always get what you want, huh?”

“Yeah. I’m one lucky motherfucker,” he snorted, dunting his chin against Steve’s head. “Why does it have to be anything? It could just be a kiss.”

“Guess so.”

“Doesn’t make me a shithead.”

Steve laughed, low and dark. “Nope.”

“You and me, we’re good. And Maggie’s—”

“She’s something else.”

“Yeah.”

“Should we uh…talk about it with her?”

“What would we say?”

“Just…that it doesn’t have to change things?”

“Might change it if we mention it.”

“I guess.” Steve hesitated.

“If she brings it up, we could talk about it then?”

“Only then?”

“We don’t want to make her feel weird.”

“Right.” Steve sighed. “For my own edification, would you, ah, kiss her again?”

Bucky thought for a moment, running his fingers up and down the line of Steve’s bare arm. “Yeah. If she wanted to.”

“Me, too.” Steve sighed, hooking his ankle around Bucky’s shin. “Do other stuff, too.”

“Sure,” Bucky agreed. “So, you know. If it happens, it happens. Let’s not complicate things with what it all means.”

“Easy for you to say. She might be upset.”

“That’s projecting, worrywart,” he teased, sliding his hand from Steve’s arm to his spine, where he touched each familiar bump, the surface less knobby now than it used to be, though he knew every curve. “Why not let it be what it is? You always wanna label shit—”

“And you just want to do what feels good.”

“Mostly,” he agreed. “On that note—”

Bucky had rolled over then, pinning Steve beneath him. Kissed him stupid until they both began to drift.

The next morning, Peggy had been chipper and amiable, though she never did bring up the kisses. Bucky supposed they ought to let sleeping dogs lie—life was too unpredictable to allow one, drunken, nostalgia-fueled incident to fuck up their fledgling friendship. After all, Peggy was the most forthright, ballsy person he'd ever met (which was saying something, considering he knew Steve Rogers), so if she wasn't going to say anything, neither was he.

Three weeks after the cuddling and the kisses, the topic still hadn't come up, leading Bucky to think they'd made the right call in keeping quiet. Especially with the burgeoning bond between the three of them growing stronger every day, Peggy slipping seamlessly back into their lives. She and Steve chatted on the phone nearly daily, and she'd begun calling Bucky, too. Mostly when Steve was at work, over her lunch break, when she'd narrate her adventures into the city to buy a salad, or tell him why she couldn't go to one _particular_ iced coffee cart any more (“right at my tits, _honestly_ "). Bucky loved the calls—took them while lying in bed, or on the couch, or sitting on the fire escape with a joint in his hand, self-medicating his days away. Talking to her felt like being with her, which meant something, considering he didn't see her in person half so often as Steve. Coming to Brooklyn was a hassle for her, so while she and Steve had plenty of music-related excuses to meet up in the city, Bucky's pain levels had gotten to the point where sitting upright for any length of time was a misery. Which was extra unfair, because, for the first time in a long time, he found himself wishing he could join them. Wishing he felt better. Wishing he could claw his way back to some semblance of normalcy.

Which—and there was the rub—he _could_. He could try, anyway. Hence the ‘Peggy in his head’ problem. She’d set up a stall in his cerebellum, distributing literature intentionally and irrevocably. Pernicious little pamphlets of change rattling around in his cracked up cranium. Awful, hopeful ideas that said things like ‘ _maybe you should’_ or ‘ _what’s the worst that could happen?’_ or ‘ _why not browse culinary school websites?’_

The thing was, Bucky _knew_ the worst that could happen. Knew hope was a fool’s game. Knew the difference between ‘might’ and ‘could,’ and had resolutely stayed on the flip side of ‘don’t fucking bother.’ Jesus, he hated that she made him remember he wasn’t the only person in the world who’d been through something horrific. Not intentionally, of course, but while she hadn’t survived a fucking bomb, she’d survived something awful all the same. Come out the other side thriving and decent and successful. So why the happy fuck wasn’t he trying?

Three weeks and two days after her visit, Bucky gave into the brain pamphlets and started poking around. Made some calls when Steve was working, searched things on the internet, then deleted his history. No sense getting Steve worked up over something that might not come to pass.

Eventually, though, he made an appointment with the second-opinion doctor he’d tolerated a year before. Got on the books for a week from that Thursday and yeah, alright, _now_ he needed to tell Steve. Because if he was doing this, and it was going to be a thing, and he was really rolling the dice on fucking up his perfectly mediocre life, then he needed Steve ponying up to the table to blow on his hand for luck.

He brought the appointment up on the evening of the same day he'd made it, while lying on the couch with Steve, a DVD of some arthouse movie playing on the TV, which Bucky had wanted to see, but now found kind of pretentious and shitty. Steve was cradling him against his chest, their legs tangled together, both of them in pleasantly fuzzy states—slow and loose and a little bit dreamy—as Bucky had smoked half a joint, while Steve had nursed three beers throughout the evening.

"Hey," Bucky mumbled because he hadn't really been paying attention to the movie for a while now.

“Hmm?” Steve turned his head, resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, the whisper of breath leaving his nostrils tickling the nape of his neck.

“Quiddit,” Bucky protested, knocking him back with a smile. Pot made him oversensitive, which Steve knew, taking advantage of that weakness at every opportunity. “We gotta talk about something.”

“Right now? We’re just getting to the good part—”

“Yeah, now.”

“Such an asshole,” he said, grumbling a familiar grumble as he reached over to pause the film. “Every fuckin’ time, ten minutes left, and oh, no, Bucky’s gotta piss, Bucky’s gotta get more popcorn, Bucky’s gotta—”

“I’m getting the surgery.”

Surprising Steve with something after he’d worked up a head of steam over nothing would never get old, Bucky was pretty sure. God, he loved the slack jaw. The wide eyes. The ridiculous expression that overtook his dumb, handsome face. Bucky loved that face, too. Couldn’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss Steve’s pout, because it was there and begging to be kissed.

"What?" Steve managed, nearly taking Bucky's lip off when his teeth came together on the 'T.'

“Jesus, watch it,” he said, before starting to giggle, which was half from the pot and half from Steve’s face.

“Bucky!” Exasperated now, Steve pushed him away. “You can’t just say something like that—”

“Yeah, but I just did!” Bucky squeaked through his laughter, sore shoulder shaking as he covered his mouth with his hand. “Steve— _Steve._ ”

“You don’t even know what you’re laughing at, you fucking pothead,” he sighed, placing a hand on Bucky’s back to rub his shoulder.

“I know, but—you’re so…” He waved a hand, snorting. “I just, I’m gonna get it, okay? The surgery.”

“That’s, yeah, you said that already. I’m only…well, fuck, pal. Are you serious about that, or are you high?”

“Uh, both, but I already made an appointment with the doc next Thursday.”

“Which doctor? Erskine?”

“Yeah.”

Steve smiled. “I liked him.”

“He’s alright.” Bucky didn’t particularly like any doctors, but Dr. Erskine’s brand of good-humor and no-nonsense slate of options had been a damn sight more endurable than the first guy they’d been to—some pinch-faced shit named Zola who’d been pessimistic about Bucky’s chances with his prosthetic, predicting that he’d never be able to adapt to life with it.

“That’s…wow,” Steve said, unable to keep a big, dopey grin off his face, exuberant even as he tried to downplay how monumental he found the entire thing, lest Bucky start second-guessing, probably. “You want me to go with you?”

“Why do you think I’m telling you?” Sitting up properly, he wiped the laughter-induced tears from his eyes, still giggly, but coming down the other side of his hysterics.

“I’m, yeah, absolutely. I’ll be there—get someone to cover my shift if I have to. Just…whatever you need, Buck.”

Bucky smiled, pressing a kiss to Steve’s alcohol-ruddy cheek. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Sure,” he said, turning into the kiss, then hesitating.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Nothing, just…what ah…what brought on the change of heart?”

“Oh. Uh. It was Peggy?”

Steve's eyebrows shot to his hairline. For a moment, Bucky worried he was angry. Which would make some sort of sense—Steve had been on his case to get the surgery for over a year now, while watching Bucky dodge the idea at every turn. Picking fights, ignoring it outright, or guilt-tripping Steve for making the request. Then Peggy comes over for a couple of hours, shares a meal and a kiss, and suddenly Bucky's agreeing to the thing that was anathema to him for an entire year. It was hard to say _why_ she’d so motivated him _,_ precisely, other than the fact that it was easy to be his worst self with Steve because he knew Steve would love him anyway. Peggy? Well, shit, that was a fresh perspective, and one he hadn't allowed himself to consider.

Still, though, his about-face might piss Steve off, considering Steve had a bit of a savior complex. It came as a relief, then, when he just shrugged and said, “thank fuck for Peggy,” before kissing Bucky again.

"Yeah," he agreed when they'd parted. "I uh, hopefully, it'll be good. Like, it'll work. A little, anyway."

“I think it’ll work a lot.”

“Such a fuckin’ optimist.”

“I am _not_ ,” he spluttered, like Bucky couldn’t have offended him more.

“Yeah, you are,” he grinned. “My Stevie sunshine.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Bet your bottom dollar, the sun’ll come out tomorrow.”

“Eat my ass.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Jesus God, Bucky, that wasn’t really an invitation.”

“Well, then, you wanna turn the movie back on?”

“Are we done talking?”

“Unless you want me to serenade you some more.” There were other things to discuss—logistics, plans, all sorts of bullshit that might end in squabbles. Culinary school, on the other hand, was a subject best left alone until Bucky came out the other side of the operating room. There was no use putting hopes and dreams into the universe when they might not amount to anything but bitter disappointment. That particular Magic 8-ball outlook was hazy at best. Try again later, pal.

“No thanks,” Steve said, reaching for the remote to unpause the movie.

Mere seconds later, though, Bucky mumbled an, “oh, shit.”

“Seriously?” Steve sounded super peeved.

“I uh…I do actually have to piss, though?”

“You are such a _fuck_!”

Bucky, already halfway to his feet, flipped Steve the bird on his way out of the room.

After taking care of business, he returned to find him on the phone. When he saw Bucky, he murmured a quick “goodnight” and flipped it shut.

“Who was that?” Bucky asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew.

“Peggy.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“I don’t care.”

“Good.”

“Hey, Steve?”

“What?”

“I kinda wanna suck your dick.”

Steve’s head snapped up from his phone, and he barked out a pleased little laugh. Pot didn’t always get Bucky in the mood, but when it did, the urge hit him fast, with very little in the way of preamble or foreplay. “Uh, so we’re not finishing the movie?”

“You can,” he replied, crossing the room to flop down at Steve’s side, pressing the heel of his hand against the crotch of his sweats to give his still-soft shaft a squeeze. “Just keep watching? I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself—”

“Humor me. I’m feeling lucky.”

“You’re in some sorta mood, buddy boy.”

“Yup,” Bucky agreed, licking his lips.

“Well shit,” Steve grinned, hooking his fingers in the waistband of his sweats. “Be my guest.”

Bucky was more than happy to take him up on the invitation.

 

## 1993

Bucky worried that Peggy might be full of shit. Like, maybe the entire truce idea was an elaborate prank, and Steve had no clue he was coming over, so things were about to get a whole lot worse. Which wasn't to say the gesture Peggy had made was unappreciated—Bucky'd been surprised to see her, but he kinda liked that she had the balls to show up and lay all her cards on the table like that. All the same, she was sort of hard to get a read on. And also she was one of the weirdest girls he'd ever met. Coming over to someone's house to like…make amends? Who _did_ that kinda shit?

In the end, he was forced to take it on faith that she wasn't a lying asshole. Went over to Steve's place after work on the Monday in question, having spent the whole day sweaty-palmed and freaking out. It hadn't helped that he'd had to work an early shift, which meant dealing with Erica, who was awful and had terrible taste in movies. Though, at least being at work meant he'd been able to grab a couple of videos, just in case Steve and Peggy wanted to watch them with him. Though his sticking around past the apology was all dependent on Steve, you know, not punching him in the face. Again.

After work, he’d showered, dressing in jeans and his only Nirvana shirt, which he was wearing as a gesture of goodwill. (The fact that he owned the shirt at all had been a whole thing, actually. He’d seen it in the window of a store, so he’d bought it for Steve. But being as it wasn’t Steve’s birthday or Christmas, he’d had to lie and say that he’d accidentally bought the wrong size for himself, and did Steve want it? Steve _had_ wanted it, but he also hadn’t wanted Bucky to be out the money, so Bucky’d had to lie and say the store didn’t take returns. Which sent Steve on an anti-capitalist rant that ended with Bucky going back to the store, buying a second shirt for himself, then lying to Steve about it in saying they let him keep the wrong-sized one for free. So that was a lot of fucking effort to do something nice and get Steve a dumb shirt of his favorite band.)

When he arrived, he rang the buzzer, hanging back and stubbing the remnants of the cigarette he’d smoked on the way over out on the stoop. He hoped Steve and Peggy weren’t, like, making out up there, because the sky was kind of dark and Bucky was pretty sure it was gonna rain, and—

“Hello?” came Steve’s voice over the intercom.

“Uh, hey. It’s me.”

Silence. A click. Then, the buzz of the deadbolt unlocking. Not totally friendly, but like…Steve was letting him upstairs. That had to be worth something.

Bucky headed up to find Steve waiting, keeping the door of the apartment ajar with his slight weight, arms folded over his chest, and a real pissy expression on his face. The latter vibe was typical, but his sour mug wasn’t usually pointed Bucky’s way.

“Hey,” Bucky said, holding out the bag of movies and microwave popcorn. “I brought uh…from work. Did uh…Peggy was supposed to tell you I was coming.”

“She told me.”

“Cool, so—” Bucky pushed his free hand through his hair, clearing his throat. “Uh. I’m uh. I’m really sorry? About the other day?”

Steve’s expression darkened, the rain cloud becoming a full-on thunderhead. “Oh yeah, I’m _so_ sure, Buck,” he muttered, and Jesus, cool it with the sneer there, Luke Skywalker.

“I mean it!” Shifting his weight to his back foot, Bucky braced for a shove. Steve had been using his body as a battering ram since he was a kid, on account of him being smaller than all the other guys in their grade. He’d never quite gotten over the impulse, and while Bucky didn’t really mind, sometimes he wished Steve’d use his words instead. Save them both some grief. “I shouldn’t uh…like, it was lame of me to do that?”

“The kissing part, or the being a dick part?”

“Like…” He went for what he hoped was an impish grin. “Both?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, though he buried it in a frown. “Why’d you fucking _do_ that, then?”

“I dunno,” Bucky lied. “I just like…I guess, like…” The back of his neck was heating, and he squeezed his nape hard, willing away the awkwardness and the embarrassment to no avail. “Shit, Steve. I’m sorry, alright? I know Peggy’s your girlfriend or whatever. And I shouldn’t have um…I mean, I don’t even know why I did it, actually? I’m not...” He trailed off, no longer able to deny his attraction to Steve, but not ready to admit it out loud, either.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, though his shoulders slowly but surely were beginning to unhunch. “It’s…whatever, Buck. It’s fine.”

“Are you still pissed?”

“I mean, kinda, yeah.”

“I should go—”

“That’s, no—” He huffed out an aggrieved little sigh. “Peggy’s like trying to be nice to you? So just…come in and don’t be an asshole, alright?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” he said, with a much-too-enthusiastic nod. “Definitely.”

“You bring popcorn?”

“Yeah.”

“Come help me make it, then.”

Steve headed inside; Bucky followed. It wasn't the warmest reception in the world, but he'd take what he could get, considering what he'd done. As they passed through the apartment on the way to the kitchen, he caught a brief glimpse of Peggy sitting on the couch in the living room, looking all sorts of summery in a green dress he was sure he'd seen on Sharon. They made eye contact, and she nodded before looking away. Neither of them was thrilled about the situation, but the truce meant they silently agreed to make the best of it.

Two minutes and twenty-three seconds later (being as that was the exact amount of time necessary to properly pop popcorn in Steve’s microwave), they headed for the living room, Bucky holding the bowl, Steve grinning at Peggy as if he’d never seen anything so amazing before in his life.

Which was fine. Cool. Whatever.

“Hey,” Bucky said, giving her another nod.

“Hi,” she replied, returning the glance, then scooting to the far end of the couch, leaving no question as to who would be the person in the middle.

“Uh. I brought some movies.” He held the plastic bag aloft.

“Which ones?” she asked.

“Blade Runner,” he said, as the rerelease had been popular with customers all day, and he’d never seen the original. “And uh, the Mighty Ducks?” That selection had been for the opposite reason—it had been one of the few movies he knew Steve liked left on the shelf when his shift ended. “So whatever you guys want.”

“Blade Runner,” Peggy said at the exact same moment Steve blurted, “Mighty Ducks!”

That put Bucky in an interesting position. Truthfully, he was on Peggy’s side, and would much rather have watched Blade Runner. But Steve was Steve, and being as he was the person in the room who hadn’t yet forgiven Bucky, the choice was simple. “Guess I’m the tiebreaker. I vote Ducks.”

“Brilliant,” Peggy muttered.

“It’s really funny!” Steve protested. “We went to see it in the theater when it came out.”

“Maybe we’ll have time for both,” she replied, which seemed as much of a concession as she was likely to give, patting the couch cushion at her side. Steve sat, leaving Bucky to wrestle with the VCR—an ancient behemoth which had seen better days and cleaner heads.

“Ugh, go the fuck in, you piece of shit,” he muttered upon having the cartridge rejected for the third time. Scowling, he bent to blow into the opening, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell emanating from within. “Steve, you gotta clean this thing, Jesus Christ.”

“It’s a piece of shit, you said it yourself,” Steve replied. That was followed by a handful of popcorn bouncing off the back of Bucky’s head, along with a snort from Peggy. Typical show of maturity on Steve’s part. Bucky wasn’t about to dignify him with a response, so he tried the tape one more time. Miracle of miracles, the blowing worked as well on the VHS as it did on his NES cartridges, the VCR whirring to life seconds later, preview screen blaring.

“Awesome,” Bucky muttered.

When he turned back to the sofa, he was greeted with the sight of Peggy curled up, legs on the cushion, head on Steve’s chest, and her hand on his knee. Like she belonged there. Like she was his, and he was hers. Which, he was. She was. They were.

Bucky caught her eye. She raised a brow as if daring him to comment. But, like: ha! No fucking way. He wasn’t that moronic, so he chose to flop down on Steve's opposite side instead, kicking off his sneakers and putting his feet on the coffee table while Steve hit fast-forward to get to the movie.

Which was a really dumb movie.

And, yeah, Bucky had _known_ it was dumb. He’d seen it before. But watching it with a girl who had been more interested in Blade Runner meant that it seemed _extra_ dumb, so it was hard not to feel self-conscious about the ridiculous shit the Ducks got up to. Like, uh, the _literal_ dog shit joke that opened the film. Bucky didn’t care what Peggy thought of him at all, but also: he didn’t want her to think he was lame.

A conundrum, to be sure.

The movie got marginally less shitty by the time Emilio Estevez started delivering his first heartwarming, Disney-fied speech. Not _not_ shitty, but better. Peggy had both arms wrapped around Steve’s waist by then, which meant that, weirdly, her fingers were kind of brushing against Bucky’s side? And, like, okay, he wasn’t _into_ her or anything, but she was pretty, and her hands felt nice, so it was hard not to notice or think about what she was doing. To wonder if maybe she _knew_ she was doing it? Except when he shifted his weight, she pulled back like he'd closed a mousetrap on her fingers, making Steve jump.

“What?” Steve whispered.

“Nothing,” she said, eyes flicking to meet Bucky’s in the dim light of the screen. She looked nervous. Surely she wasn’t, though. It wasn’t like she’d meant to do it.

Bucky offered her a half-smile, like it was no big deal (it wasn’t), before relaxing against the cushions again. After a while, though, he realized he was kind of hunching in on himself, and his shoulders were hurting. So he stretched both arms out along the back of the couch, putting one behind Steve’s head, the other draped near the arm of the sofa. It was a move he’d made a hundred million times before—he liked his space, was all—and there was nothing weird about it.

Or there _hadn’t_ been. Before he’d gone and kissed Steve. Now, well, it felt kinda awkward. But maybe that was just him because if Steve was bothered, he didn’t react. Just stuck another handful of popcorn into his mouth before laughing at some terrible joke the redheaded kid with glasses made. Bucky rolled his eyes, slouching further down the couch, hand absently stroking the soft material of a pillow.

Which, like, it took him a good two minutes to realize he was actually touching Peggy's hair. At first, he'd thought it was a tassel, on account of it being soft and silky. Tassels were nice things to touch, so he kept playing with it. Petting it and stroking it and winding it around his finger until it suddenly occurred to him that Sarah Rogers didn't have any pillows with tassels on her sofa. Like, in the hundreds of times Bucky had come to this apartment: no tassels.

That was about when Peggy brought the error to his attention with a subtle clearing of her throat and a slight shaking of her head. Bucky froze like a little kid caught standing in front of a graffiti-filled wall with a permanent marker in his hand.

“Uh.” He cleared his throat and yanked his fingers away. “I gotta piss.”

“God, Buck,” Steve grumbled good-naturedly, none the wiser as he reached for the remote to pause the film while Bucky carefully extricated himself from their tangle.

Dumbshit, dumbshit, dumbshit! What the fuck was wrong with him? Why had he _touched_ her? Why couldn’t he use his brain for once in his life?

Sprinting down the hall and into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, staring at himself in the mirror for what felt like forever, wondering if he'd been born this stupid, or if he'd smoked one too many joints in the past couple years. Probably the latter, as only a real idiot would start petting his best friend's girlfriend's hair like she was some sort of house cat.

“Buck?” Came Steve’s voice at the door a few minutes later, accompanied by a soft knock, the gentleness of it a shock, considering it was coming from rock hammer Rogers.

“ _What_?” he snapped, too quickly. Too harshly.

“You alright?”

“Jesus, can I not piss in peace?”

“Sorry! You’re just like, taking forever?”

“I’m coming! Gimme a second.”

Steve’s footsteps retreated, and Bucky blew out a shaky breath before flushing and running the water for effect. After that, there was nothing to do but head back to the living room, where Peggy was still sitting on the couch, though Steve was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, going for casual as he sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, as far from her as he could be without looking overly guilty.

“Getting a blanket.”

Bucky squinted at her. “It’s like…a million degrees in here.”

“We like blankets,” she said, a curious look on her face as she studied him. “What were you—”

“Got it,” Steve chirped, appearing in the doorway with a knitted throw that made Bucky itchy just looking at it.

“Uh, you two have fun burning to death,” he muttered as Steve sat down.

“We will,” Peggy replied primly, and what the fuck did that mean? Except: ew. They’d better not start touching each other’s junk under there with him in the goddamn room.

Steve spread the blanket over his and Peggy’s lap, with Peggy once again curling her legs behind herself, taking her former position.

Only this time, she wouldn’t quit giving Bucky curious, confused looks.

He didn’t return them, reaching for the remote and starting the movie instead. They watched in silence for a while, up to the point where the final showdown between the Ducks and the Hawks began. Steve seemed genuinely nervous over the matchup, body rigid as he chewed on his bottom lip.

“You know they’re gonna win, right?” Bucky stage-whispered, bumping his knee against Steve’s, whose heel was in the business of rhythmically thumping against the hardwoods.

“Shut up, Buck.”

“Just saying, it’s called The Mighty Ducks, not the Rich Douchebags.”

“Fuck _off,_ Bucky!”

“I’m not the one pissing my pants about it.”

“Would you two stuff it?” Peggy interjected. “I’m involved now—you made me watch it, and I want to see the end.”

“Oh, ex- _cuse_ me,” Steve teased, turning his head to kiss her temple in a gesture that was so casually intimate it made Bucky’s breath hitch as if he’d gotten punched in the nads. Not that he had a lot of experience getting punched in the nads, but Freddie had accidentally gotten a hit in once, so, like, he had an idea. And this was pretty much exactly like that.

Peggy noticed, of course, but Bucky was beginning to get the sense that Peggy noticed everything. Her sharp eyes gauged his reaction to the kiss before she turned back to the screen where, several non-tense minutes later, the Ducks won the game in the least surprising victory of all time.

The actual surprise came with the credits, when Peggy lifted her head from Steve’s chest and leaned up to kiss him. Like, _really_ kiss him. Tongues and all. In a manner that suggested they’d spent a _lot_ of time practicing. How much time had they been spending together? Bucky knew about four dates—maybe five—but surely they hadn’t been hanging out _that_ much?

Steve laughed against her lips, and despite the low light of the room, Bucky could tell he was blushing as he pulled away. “Uh…hi.”

“Hi,” she said, turning her head so she could catch Bucky’s eye. “Any problems with that?”

“Uh. Nope,” he lied.

“Brilliant,” she said before doing it again.

Shit. Bucky frowned, not sure where to look as Steve returned the kiss, then pulled away with a breathless laugh. “Peg—”

“Bucky’s jealous,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if she were reciting from a textbook. “He wants to kiss you again.”

"No, I don't!" Bucky yelped.

“Peggy!” Steve protested.

“What?” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s been making these horrid little grunting noises every time I touch you, as if we haven’t noticed, and—”

“I have not!”

"Yes, you have!" she shot back. "So alright, fine. Kiss him if you like. But I'm not going anywhere, so you'd better make it count."

“Hang on a second,” Steve snapped. “I’m the monkey in the middle here, so…”

“The hell with it—” Peggy leaned over to kiss Bucky on the cheek, right near the corner of his mouth. He hardly had time to realize what she’d done before she sat up and looked back at Steve. “There, now I’ve kissed him, you’ve kissed me, and he can kiss you. Then we’ll be bloody well even.”

Steve’s eyes had gone wide, expression caught between outrage and attraction. “Uh. I don’t…do you…I mean, do you _want_ me to kiss him?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a frown, lips pursed. “But I think he might want to kiss _me_. He was….he was playing with my hair. Earlier. Before he ran away to piss.”

“What?” Steve turned to Bucky, eyes flashing both hurt and anger.

Bucky held up his hands in weak defense. "It was an accident!"

“How do you accidentally play with someone’s hair?”

“…I thought it was uh, like, a tassel?”

“Bucky!”

“Steve!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Peggy muttered.

Steve's famously poor temper got the better of him then, rage and confusion and God knew what else driving him as he surged across the sofa, pressing his mouth to Bucky's in a jarring, messy kiss, all lips and teeth, and popcorn breath. Bucky, caught off guard, grunted his astonishment, though that didn't stop him from kissing back. Tilting his head to chase Steve before he could retreat, biting at his lower lip, then letting him go. Watching with a hesitant smile as Steve fell back to the cushions, dumb-struck and beautiful, which was the only word Bucky could think of for what he looked like at that moment.

“Oh my God,” Bucky managed.

"Oh, _wow_ ,” Peggy said. Bucky turned to look at her, afraid of what he’d find, only to discover she was smiling. Like, genuinely smiling. Like she’d totally gotten off on watching her boyfriend kiss another dude. Huh.

“I’m sorry,” Steve bleated.

“Why would you be sorry?” she said. “I told you to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Did you like it?”

“No, it was…” Steve trailed off, and Bucky knew him well enough to know when he was lying. Especially when he ducked his head to hide behind his hair. The gesture was enough to provoke the protective instinct Bucky only seemed to have for his sisters and Steve, so he reached out to pull him into a half-hug, one arm around his back, tugging him against his side.

Peggy’s expression softened, and she bit her lip. “I wasn’t trying to…”

“This is already weird!” Steve wailed, lifting his head. “So whatever pissing contest the two of you are having right now, leave me the fuck out of it!”

Bucky snorted—there was no way was he going down on Peggy’s behalf. “This was all her idea, pal.”

“Says the wanker who was playing with my hair.”

“I _wasn’t_.”

“You were!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Steve shouted over the both of them. “It’s not…and _you’re_ not…and _we’re_ not…”

“Not what?” Peggy said, tone a bit gentler. Conciliatory. _Kind_. Bucky hadn’t thought she was capable of that.

“You’re my girlfriend,” Steve said, the statement more of a question as he sought her confirmation.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Problem with that is, you’ve got a thing for Bucky, and Bucky’s got a thing for you.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Which puts me at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn’t it? Odd man out.”

“Peggy,” Steve frowned.

“So fuck it,” she said, with a rueful laugh before he could continue. “Kiss him, kiss me. Let’s all kiss each other, shall we? Because I’m done listening to Bucky grumble every time I touch you, or having you feel badly for the way you feel about him. I’m not…it’s no fun for me when you’ve got a guilty conscience.”

Bucky couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Because what the _fuck_ was this crazy chick proposing, exactly? If she meant what he thought she meant, she was nuts. Like, that was certifiably the wildest thing he’d ever heard.

It wasn’t the _dumbest_ thing he’d ever heard, though. Or, like, he didn’t think so. The idea had merit, was all.

“Peggy,” Steve repeated. “We can’t just… _do_ that.”

“Why not? What’s stopping us?”

“Uh.” Steve blinked. “We’re not _Mormons_.”

Peggy frowned. “What?”

“You know. Like, those dudes in Utah that have a bunch of wives?”

“I’m not marrying either of you,” she shot back. “Jesus.”

“But—”

“What about you?” she asked, rounding on Bucky.

“Me?”

“What’s your take on it?”

Now that the question had been posed to him directly, Bucky didn't quite know how to answer. Sure, it was an unconventional idea—they weren't Mormons, and this was outside the realm of anything he'd ever heard of before. Although he'd definitely watched two girls kiss in front of him at a party, but that was different. This was…whatever this was. Because the thing Peggy was proposing sounded like a relationship? Or a triangle? Except, love triangles usually had fighting, and this didn't seem like they'd be fighting. It seemed more like they'd be kissing. A lot. In all sorts of permutations.

There were a whole host of issues with that when it came to Steve, but Bucky couldn't think about those until he'd dealt with Peggy, as a concept. Peggy, the great unknown equation, who both pissed him off and confused the hell out of him. Because she was kind of mean, but also kind of hot. And she had _excellent_ boobs. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure he liked her, but she’d grown on him a little bit with her forthrightness over the entire situation. Most girls wouldn’t have done that. Plus, also, she smelled good? And he’d liked touching her hair. He probably shouldn’t have been thinking dick-first, but she wasn’t hideous, which helped. He was decent enough at denying his baser instincts when he had to—he was a fucking gentleman—but Peggy was _offering_ , and he wasn’t some pious saint.

Then, there was the Steve side. The…sexuality side? The thing was, whatever feelings he was having about Steve weren’t going away just because he wanted them to. Which led him to wonder whether those feelings were _just_ for Steve, or if there were other guys he’d be into, should the opportunity arise? Granted, tying himself down to Steve and Peggy exclusively wasn’t the best way of figuring that one out, but he also wasn’t about to don a rainbow sweatshirt and go marching in a parade.

So whatever. Yeah. It was cool.

“Uh, I mean, whatever. Yeah. It’s cool,” he said.

“You’re into it, Buck?” Steve asked, a frown on his face.

“I mean, I’m not like…a hundred percent sure what ‘it’ is?” he said, making finger quotes. “Besides, you know, the fact that we’re not being Mormons.”

“If we’re being pedantic,” Peggy broke in. “I’d call it a trio.”

“But not a triangle,” Bucky said immediately.

“What’s the difference?” Steve frowned.

“Triangle’s uh…cheating,” Bucky said. “I think.”

“Which this isn’t,” Peggy was quick to clarify.

“Right,” Bucky agreed. “Like, nobody’s gonna get jealous, and we should just do what feels good, probably? See what happens?” That seemed a whole lot easier than having some big fucking conversation about feelings, anyway.

“I like that better than doing what’s been making us miserable,” Peggy shrugged.

Bucky could get on board with the non-misery side of things, so he leaned over Steve, keeping one arm around him, to pull Peggy into a real kiss—no cheeks, no temples, no cutting corners—where he discovered that yeah, she was a pretty damn good kisser. No wonder Steve had been a quick study. Which didn’t seem fair, considering that both his kisses so far with Steve had been awkward, rushed, fraught with emotion and a certain degree of shame. Kissing Peggy, though? Shit, that was easy. That was a kiss he knew how to kiss—lips touching, parted slightly. Not too much tongue (learned that one after getting an earful from his very first girlfriend). Brush a thumb across her cheekbone, cup her jaw tenderly, then pull away with a smile. Oh, and bite his lip. The lip bite was super important.

"Wow." Steve's voice broke the silence, an echo of Peggy's earlier sentiment, which yeah, Bucky could see the appeal of watching two people you were into kiss one another with permission. Which made a significant change from how he'd felt while watching Steve and Peggy do it before. But, like, knowing he could reach over and kiss either one of them if he wanted to? That was…intriguing.

“Not bad, Barnes,” Peggy said, the words meant to tease as she tossed her head toward Steve. “Now him. Properly, this time.”

Bucky obliged, quickly catching Steve in a third kiss, this one better than the previous two by a mile. Softer. Sweeter. Simple, considering neither of them was in a panic about it. Sure, a tiny (loud) bit of Bucky's brain was still screaming at him that this was weird, and this was wrong, and this was gay, gay, _gay_! But that loud, tiny voice was probably, like, Freudian? That was a thing, right? Nobody else had to know what they were doing, plus it felt good. They could figure out the rest later. Or not. Maybe the feeling good part was enough to go on.

When Bucky pulled away, Peggy was there to replace him, kissing Steve deeply, with much more intensity than Bucky had. Which, oh, yeah, he could _definitely_ see the appeal of this sort of arrangement now. Mostly, anyway. That initial tug of jealousy in his middle hadn’t disappeared, but it had faded, only to be replaced with something stranger—an urge to reach out and force them into a deeper kiss. To stick his tongue right between their mouths, shoving his way in and joining them. To wrap them up, touch them all over, take off their clothes, kiss every inch of their skin and—oh, shit. Down, boy!

Steve let out a shaky breath as Peggy released him, looking back and forth between them before blurting out, “so uh, do you guys wanna watch Blade Runner?”

Bucky and his boner were grateful for the reprieve because they definitely needed a minute to sit, think, and process. Being as he was the entertainment professional, he got up and switched out the tapes, then settled back on the couch as the movie began to play. Only this time, as they watched, he didn't think twice about playing with Peggy's hair when his arm fell to the back of the couch. And it made sense for Steve to shift closer, dropping his head against Bucky's shoulder, one arm still tucked around Peggy's middle. The sense-making continued when he put his hand on Bucky's knee, and like, it _definitely_ was logic at work when Peggy’s hand moved to cover Steve’s, slowly but surely dragging their entwined fingers up Bucky’s thigh until they were, like, _inches_ away from his dick.

There seemed to be some unspoken understanding that they would stop there. Frozen in place until Sarah got back around one, putting an end to their cuddling. Because they were gentlemen, they walked Peggy to her building, each of them kissing her once on the stoop before splitting up. Steve headed home, and Bucky took the long way back to his place, giving himself time to think.

By the time he crawled into bed at five after two (because curfews were for the weak), he’d come to terms with their situation, or at least his brain had stopped turning in crazy circles. Because, like, okay, maybe nobody outside of the Mormons had ever thought of a trio before, but it really did solve a shit ton of problems.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to any actual Mormons or former Mormons for the lack of nuance on the part of These Boys.


	10. the hand inside you

**I want to hold the hand inside you** **  
****I want to take a breath that’s true** **  
** _-Mazzy Star_

 

## 2005

Things moved fast, once Bucky told Steve about the surgery. Mostly because Dr. Erskine was the kind of doctor who gave a damn about his patients, who took a special shine to Bucky despite his bouts of temper. The good doctor pulled some strings, getting him in with a specialist less than a week after their initial appointment. Said specialist—a no-nonsense surgeon named Christine Palmer whom Steve liked and Bucky tolerated—scheduled the surgery for six weeks later at a hospital in Manhattan, putting it smack dab in the middle of August.

Steve didn’t love that they had to wait, and worried Bucky might change his mind. Worried that one day he’d wake up with a “you know what…” or “I can’t” on his lips. But as August crept closer, that day never came. Granted, Bucky wasn’t thrilled, but he seemed resolute about it happening, at least.

While they waited, life continued as normally as it could, the impending surgery fading to a low hum in the back of Steve’s mind. Mostly a quiet hum, though occasionally it emerged with a suddenness, a brass band reminding him how much Bucky was going to need him during his recovery, as his right arm would be rendered immobile for the first few weeks, at least. Maybe longer—the doctor wouldn’t know for sure until she was finished. And even in the best-case scenario, Bucky’s arm wouldn’t be up to much until he’d done a bunch of physical therapy.

So yeah, the thoughts were there. Coming unbidden in the middle of otherwise unremarkable activities.

Stopping into a Duane Reade because they were out of soap? _Don’t forget, you’ll be helping Bucky shower._

Changing the toilet paper in the bathroom? _Gonna be helping him with a lotta stuff, huh? Good thing you love him._

Eating a meal Bucky had made while Steve was at work? _You’ll be doing the cooking for a while, and if he gets worse, you’ll be cooking forever._

That last thought was the scariest and most persistent one. Steve hated acknowledging that what Bucky was agreeing to undergo might not work. There were risks to the surgery, the same as there were for any operation. Bucky might come out the other side with nerve damage to fuck up his right arm worse than it was now. There was also a risk he might lose what fine muscle control he'd gained with his prosthetic over the years. Remote possibilities, sure, which the surgeon had assured them of time and again. But bodies were weird, and it wasn't like Bucky'd had a lot of luck in that department.

Beyond the surgery, there was the other thing preoccupying Steve’s thoughts. The other _matter_ —the five foot six red-lipped brunette matter, as it happened.

Peggy and all her complications weren’t an additional _worry_ , exactly, but their situation weighed on his mind all the same. For all that Bucky seemed content to pretend the kisses had never happened, the fact was that they _had_ kissed her. Liked it. Agreed that they’d let it happen again, should the occasion arise.

But the occasion hadn’t. Peggy came over once in a while to eat dinner and play video games, but she never stayed late, and she rarely drank. Steve still met her for lunch in the city sometimes, usually when he dropped by Rebirth to pick up a check or get a professionally printed copy of his work.

Turned out, Kerry liked what he’d done for Johnny Storm (ugh), and it had impressed her higher-ups so much that she’d started sending him stuff on the regular, meaning he was up to his eyeballs in freelance work. That freelance work, naturally, meant money. Not a ton, but enough to ease the strain. To sock a little bit away in his savings account, which now boasted _three_ figures when he checked his balance at the ATM.

So yeah, life moved on, and mostly, things with Peggy were fine. Normal. Same as they had been before the kisses. It was only that Steve had briefly thought, with faint, damning hope, that something might still be there. That the kiss might have led to something more. Fulfilling the half-baked desires he'd harbored since he saw her at Kamala's show. Which wasn't to say his relationship with Bucky was _lacking_ —it wasn’t. But the three of them had once been, well, the three of them. Granted, they’d spent a fair bit of their time getting sorted, awkward and unsure. _Especially_ Bucky and Peggy, who’d been as liable to growl at one another as they were to kiss and cuddle. But they’d softened. Mellowed. In the end, they’d loved each other just as much as Steve had loved either of them.

So, seeing her again? Laughing with her? Inviting her over and watching her tease Bucky, same as before? Yeah, he’d wondered. Projected. Mentioned it to Bucky and found he felt the same way. Peggy, however, had made her position clear when she’d broken the kiss without asking for another. Steve wasn’t about to push her.

Because the thing was, putting aside all talk of romance, being around Peggy was like slipping into an old coat. One that had been lost for years in the back of a closet, wedged between boxes, the feel of it a paradox. Because you remembered the soft places and the smell of it, but your body had changed. Thickened in parts, narrowed in others, so the fit was off at first, but soon settled into something comfortable. Better, maybe, because you appreciated the coat for what it was, having gone so long without it.

That was the thing Steve couldn’t stop thinking about: how easy it was when they were together. Simple. Intimate even without intimacy.

He was glad to have her back in any capacity, but mostly he was glad to have her as his friend.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of Bucky’s surgery, they woke at 4:45. They had to be to the hospital and checked in by 6:30, and neither of them trusted the MTA to get them there expediently. Bucky, upon waking, was in a piss-poor mood, thanks to his nerves and the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything. Steve endured the monosyllabic complaints as they gathered their things, including an overnight bag. He was optimistic it would only be a one night stay, but they wouldn’t know for sure until afterward.

“You got your phone charger?” Steve asked while Bucky stood at the front door, glowering, hair pulled into a low ponytail.

"Fuck," he sighed, rolling his eyes so far back, Steve figured they might get stuck staring at his brain for the rest of his life.

"I'll go get it." He offered a smile before heading to their bedroom, where he found the charger tangled in a pair of definitely-dirty socks. How that had happened, he didn't know, and he wrinkled his nose while extracting the cord. Neither of their phones was up to much, but Bucky's parents and sisters had requested regular updates, as they hadn't been allowed to come to New York. That was at Bucky's particular request, which Steve had honored, though he knew it hurt Bucky's mother to be told not to bother.

(“C’mon, Buck, she could help out—”

“Fuck no, I want to feel _better_. She'll fuss over me, and we'll end up fighting.")

They’d agreed on a compromise, with Winnie and George visiting for a couple of days in late September. With any luck, Bucky would feel better by then, and they could see for themselves that he was hale and hearty.

Which was, of course, how Steve had ended up assigned to parent patrol, monitoring both of their phones and providing status updates as needed during the surgery.

Charger acquired, they headed for the subway. The train arrived swiftly, and by some transit authority miracle, there were no delays, putting them in midtown with half an hour to spare. That allowed for a leisurely check-in (though with Bucky the way he was, leisure was laughable) before they sat down in the waiting room, hand in hand. Fifteen minutes later, they were called back to a prep room, where there was additional paperwork and last-minute processing to be done. Luckily, their faux-marriage meant they'd dealt with most of the logistics years before—power of attorney, wills, all the rest—but DNRs and other fun things had been new, and Steve had hated every minute of that little discussion.

Once the details were dealt with, there was nothing left but to say goodbye. That was the part Steve didn’t do so well with, which, hell, after all those years spent going into surgery himself, or watching his mother carted off, you’d think he would have been better at it.

“I’ll uh, I’ll be right here after,” he said, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Bucky’s dry lips.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, right hand grabbing Steve’s arm, bearing down hard enough to hurt. “I—I love you. You know that, right?”

They didn’t say it often. What was the point of saying something you knew down to the very center of yourself? Still, it was nice to hear, especially on an occasion like this. Steve smiled, blinking and taking Bucky’s hand, which he brought to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in turn. “I know you do, Buck. I love you, too.”

“I um—” Bucky cleared his throat, fingers flexing against Steve’s. “You should get some breakfast—don’t forget to eat, huh?”

“I’ll try,” he said, mouth moving to Bucky’s palm, where he bit the heel of his hand. “I’m so proud of you, pal.”

“Steve…”

“I am. And just, you know. I love you a lot. So now you know that twice.”

Bucky smiled—a real smile—catching Steve’s nose between his index and middle fingers to give it a tweak. “Love you infinity, punk.”

“Love you infinity plus one, jerk.”

“Asshole,” Bucky laughed, though when an orderly pushed open the door seconds later, his good humor faded fast.

They let Steve walk with him as far as the doors that led to the operating rooms. It felt surreal—like something out of an episode of ER—but Steve wasn’t going to complain about any extra time he could get with Bucky. When they got to the end of the line, he squeezed Bucky’s hand and let him go, a strange, hollowed-out feeling settling on him the moment the doors shut.

After that, there was nothing to do but count time, so he made his way to the waiting room, his entire world gone off-kilter. That unbalanced sensation made it even more disconcerting when he heard someone calling his name.

“Steve!”

Peggy? Steve blinked, the fog lifting as he looked around, spotting her on one of the puce-colored couches, two cups of coffee and a big, brown paper bag on her lap.

“I—hi,” he stammered, making his way past the people sleeping on chairs or pretending to read magazines. “What, um, hi? What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use the company,” she said brightly. “I brought you breakfast.”

“But you didn’t—I didn’t say—”

“You did, actually,” she said, surmising the source of his confusion. “You mentioned the hospital a couple of times. Wasn’t hard to find the right waiting room.”

“Don’t you have work?” he asked, the inanity dropped before he could think it through.

“Took a day,” she said, patting the couch cushion next to her. “Has he gone in, then?”

“Yeah. They uh. They just took him back. Peggy, you really didn’t have to do this…”

“If you raise another word of protest, I’ll eat your cinnamon roll.”

Steve smiled and sat down, his hollowed-out heart filled with something like gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Were you _really_ planning on soldiering through this alone?”

“I uh…Bucky didn’t want his family here, so…yeah?”

“Martyr. You might have _asked_ me.”

“I didn’t even think about it,” he admitted.

“Good thing I’m so conscientious,” she said, passing him one of the coffees. “Two creams, no sugar, right?”

“Right. Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course,” she said, putting her coffee down in the slight gap between them before reaching into the bag and producing a box, inside of which were two cinnamon rolls the size of Steve’s head.

“Oh my God,” he managed.

“They better have given us forks,” she said, digging around for a few seconds longer until she’d produced both the cutlery and a fistful of napkins.

Steve could have wept. Because he was hungry and scared and anxious, so he didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything in the world more than he wanted that cinnamon roll. He reached for a fork and cut into it, taking a too-big bite and moaning. It was _perfect_ —ooey and gooey, too sweet by half, and just-warm-enough.

Peggy quirked a brow, a smile playing across her lips before she did the same and nodded her approval. Once she’d swallowed, rather than asking about Bucky or the surgery or anything that might remind Steve of where he was, she proceeded to point her toes and begin a long, convoluted story that started with “so this utter cunt in legal—”

Trying to distract him, obviously. The thing was, though, it worked. Took his mind off everything except how animated she was as she told that first tale of woe, followed by another, and another, and another, time passing in a blur. She seemed bound and determined to keep him from fretting, talking at length about whatever she could think of, mostly work. That might have been a boring topic for most people, but with her, it was fascinating, because the stories were so wild. Like, the time she'd throat-punched someone at T in the Park for groping her, or when she'd gone toe to toe in a drinking contest with the Bifrost's drummer, backstage at Glastonbury.

“Val,” she said with no small amount of admiration, holding her coffee cup aloft. “Drank me under the fucking table.”

“I don’t believe it,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I mean, I sort of can, but—” He stopped short, eyes flicking to the mounted screen that held the initials of each patient in surgery, as well as their status. Like the Penn Station departure board, only less morbid. (Ha, ha.) Something had changed—someone had moved up the list—but it wasn’t Bucky. His line was still marked ‘OR.’ Which was fine. Good. Taking longer than Steve had thought it would, but Dr. Palmer had warned him they wouldn’t know exactly how much they’d be able to safely remove until they got in there.

Probably everything was fine.

“Where’d you go?” Peggy asked gently, voice cutting through his worry.

“Oh, uh. The board. Just…it feels like he’s been back there forever, you know?”

Peggy’s smile was sympathetic, and she reached over to squeeze his arm. “I’m sure everything’s alright.”

“Oh, yeah, me too. But I’m…oh, shit, sorry, that’s Bucky’s ma.” The phone on his lap lit with an incoming call, and he fumbled to flip it open, then pressed it to his ear. Winnie was fretful and full of questions, which he answered as best he could. No, Bucky wasn’t out yet. No, his status hadn’t changed. Yes, he’d call her the minute he had news.

“She’s mollified?” Peggy asked after he’d hung up, leaning forward to take his shaking hands in her steady ones.

“I just wish it was fucking over,” he admitted, lowering his head and sighing, temples throbbing in time with his heartbeat, which had spiked with Winnie’s call, though it hadn’t truly settled all morning. “I know it’s fine. I know _he’s_ fine. But fuck, you get in your head, you know?”

“I absolutely do.”

“They’re cutting _so_ close to his spine, and that’s…I mean, ribs and lungs and heart and…so much important stuff is in there, and sure, she’s a _good_ doctor, but she's fucking human, so what if something goes wrong, and—"

“Steve.” Peggy’s tone was firm, and she squeezed his hand harder than was strictly necessary. “Stop it.”

"Fuck." His breath hitched in his throat while he blinked back tears.

“I know it’s easy to get caught up in what might be and what could be,” she said. “But it’s not doing you any good, and it’s certainly not doing Bucky any good. Best thing you can do is just…stay positive.”

“Right,” he said, frowning, then blurting out the first stupid thing that came to mind, as that seemed like a decent distraction. “Do you want kids?”

Peggy blinked. Laughed. Raised a brow. “Beg pardon?”

"It's like. I keep thinking about it? Because of him being back there, I mean. We've been uh, dancing around the idea for a couple of years? Although we definitely don't have the money right now, and we might never. But like, if things got better? If the surgery does what it's supposed to do? Maybe…I dunno. I think he'd be a good dad, and I'd…you know. I'd try. But if something happens to him, or—"

“I do want kids,” Peggy said, her attempt to steer his train of thought back onto the tracks transparent but appreciated.

“Yeah?”

“Christ knows my mother fucked me up,” she said. “So yes, there’s this smug, awful little part of me that wants to do better by my kids than she did by me. I want to be an _outstanding_ mum.”

Steve smiled. “You would be. You’d be…tough, but fun.”

“Well, with such healthy reasoning behind my desire for children, how could I not be?” she teased.

“Eh,” he said, waving his hand. “Spite’s a great motivator.”

“True. It’s a bit of a moot point right now, though. I suppose if I get too old, there’s always adoption.”

Steve fought against the reaction he wanted to have—to question whether she _actually_ wanted to adopt, or whether she wanted a biological kid but didn’t think she’d find someone to have one with. Instead, he said, “so have we.”

“Have you?”

“Or fostering. That was Bucky’s idea. I mean, we never really talked about it seriously. But we spitballed, a little.”

“How would that work, with you two being ah…well. A couple.”

Steve shrugged, absently running his thumb over hers. "We never got that far, but New York's liberal—I bet they're pretty good about same-sex adoption, or fostering, or whatever. We might be in trouble if we lived in Alabama, but we don't. So."

“Shit luck for those in Alabama.”

“Yup.”

“What about—” she began, before shaking her head.

“What?”

"Just ah. If you wanted a biological kid—which, obviously, adoption's great, and you should do it—but have you ever had a partner who was…who might have been a surrogate, or been interested in—"

Steve’s eyebrows began a slow creep up his forehead. “Um. What?”

"I only mean that since you two are in an open relationship, if adoption proved difficult, you might have other options, or—"

“We uh…” Steve cut her off, resisting the wellspring of hysteria bubbling within. “Bucky and I aren’t in an open relationship, though? We’re…it’s just us.”

Peggy frowned. “But—?”

“Is this about the kiss?”

Cheeks gone pink, which was unusual, she shrugged, pulling her hands back with a swiftness. “I assumed I wasn’t…well. Maybe I _was_ the first, but…”

“First, last, and only, Frank.”

“Ah,” she said, voice faltering.

“Bucky and me,” he explained. “Since you, we’ve only been us, and—”

The phone on his lap began to ring. He glanced down to see an unknown number on the tiny display. Frowning, he flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Rogers?”

“Uh. Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Dr. Palmer’s scrub nurse, Elliot? We met earlier?”

Steve’s heart began thumping hard in his chest, and he glanced at the board. Bucky’s status was still ‘OR.’

“Uh…” His voice came out a squeak. “Yes?”

“Dr. Palmer needs you to come to the third floor.”

“The third…?”

“They’ll point you to the right room when you get there.”

“But—” The question died on Steve’s lips as Elliot ended the call.

“Steve?” Peggy’s voice was coming from underwater and next door; a million miles away.

“I have to—” He stood abruptly, vision narrowing to a pinprick. “That was the nurse. The scrub nurse. He—the doctor wants to talk to me? But Bucky’s still…he’s still in…” The statement trailed off into a hiccup of panic. Peggy was on her feet in an instant, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I’m right here,” she said firmly as he slumped against her side. “Where are we going?”

“Third…third floor.”

“Right. Let’s get there, then we’ll sort this out.”

Brusque and efficient, Peggy marched them across the waiting room to the elevator bank, where she led him inside the arriving car and hit three. Rote and routine—same as a million other elevators he'd ridden in his life, except this time his ears were filled with blood, and he couldn't help thinking how this was a _big_ elevator. Big enough for a gurney. Big enough for a body. Big enough for Bucky because _why_ would the nurse call him directly and _why_ hadn’t Bucky’s status changed and _why_ and _why_ and _why_?

Because something was wrong.

Because Bucky was hurt.

Because Bucky was dying.

Because Bucky was dead.

“Steve. You need to take a breath, right now,” Peggy said as they reached three. “Where’s your inhalator if we need it?”

“Bag,” he said, spacey and slow.

“Breathe for me,” she said, hand on his chest. He could focus on that, he found. Focus on the rising and the falling as she caught the arm of a passing orderly. “Sorry—we were told to come here to consult with a surgeon. His partner—”

“You have to check in at the desk,” the orderly replied, pointing down the long, spartan hallway. “Take a left at the end.”

“Thank you,” Peggy said, quick-stepping in that direction. Steve, meanwhile, was still focusing on his breathing, grateful that she was there because he wasn’t sure he could have walked down that hallway without her. Hard to put one foot in front of the other when it felt like you were heading toward some inevitable ending.

“Steve,” she said, voice cutting through the noise. “What’s the name of Bucky’s doctor?”

“P-Palmer,” he stammered.

“Excellent. Thank you.” They reached the desk, and she addressed the person sitting behind it—not a nurse, but an administrator. “We’ve been sent to meet with a Dr. Palmer, regarding James Barnes. He’s in surgery, so if you could just—”

“Let me see what room you’re supposed to be in,” she said. Something about the nonchalance in her tone made Steve want to reach across the desk and punch a hole in her monitor.

“Is he—” he began, voice cracking on the second word.

“What’s his status?” Peggy finished.

“I’m not authorized to release that information. You’ll need to wait for the doctor,” she said. “You’ll be in room 302C. Just down there, on the right.”

“Surely you can tell us _something_ ,” Peggy said, peevish now as she raised herself to her full height.

“All I can tell you is that the system says he’s still in surgery.”

“Are…but if he’s in surgery, and the nurse isn’t…” Steve managed, legs turning to a watery jelly as he clung to Peggy’s arm.

“Christ, can’t you _call_ someone?” Peggy snapped.

“Ma’am,” she said with such finality that Steve could have wept. “You need to wait for the doctor. I’m sorry, but it’s protocol.”

“Is it _protocol_ to give someone’s partner no information and scare the shit out of them?” she snapped, eyes flashing fire.

“As I said, the room’s down the hall on your right.”

“Thank you _ever_ so much for your help,” she shot back, taking Steve’s hand to lead him down an impossibly long hallway, which stretched and narrowed like a horror movie.

It was Peggy who found the room, scanning the signs, then pushing open the door to a tiny, windowless box with beige walls and a wilted plant alongside three chairs around a small table.

“Fuck,” he whispered the moment she’d closed the door behind them. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

“We don’t know anything for certain,” she said, squeezing his fingers. But when he looked up and met her eyes, he could see it—the worry. The understanding that something might very well be wrong.

Peggy didn’t worry. Peggy was fearless.

Steve was going to be sick.

“He’s fucking dead,” he whispered, snarling the last word at the universe before a sob wracked him, terror turning to panic.

“Steve!” Peggy’s hands went to his shoulders, giving him a shake. “Stop it.”

"I can't, I can't—" Couldn't breathe. Throat closing up, and he couldn't say whether it was from asthma or anxiety, but it was _something_ , so maybe he was going to die, too, because he'd aged fifty years in five minutes. Nothing made any sense in this room with its beige walls and ugly chairs and cheap plant because the doctor was going to come in and tell him Bucky was dead. His Bucky was dead, and Bucky was dead, and Bucky was—

Peggy’s hands were gone, then one was back. Inhaler held in the other. She shook it once, twice. Held it to his lips. “I think I remember how this works. Start breathing in for me, that’s a good boy.” She gave the inhaler a quick pump, and Steve felt the sharp burst of air. “Hold it, darling. I’ll count to ten.”

She counted. Slow, sure, steady, as he began to emerge from his panic. Throat releasing its constricting hold so he could drag in a harsh breath.

“…and out,” she finished. “Excellent, Steve. Let’s do that once more.”

They repeated the process, and though Steve was able to breathe by the end of it, that didn’t stop the cloying, shuddery sobs which wracked him as he slumped into one of the grey, vinyl chairs and dropped his head to his hands.

Peggy said nothing, simply knelt and wrapped her arms around him, forehead pressed to the crown of his head as she held him close. Rocked him. Soothed him. Kept him near until, twenty endless minutes later, Dr. Palmer opened the door.

The scene must have caught her by surprise—Steve, red-eyed and sniffling, Peggy red-faced and furious—the smile on her face fading the moment they looked up. “Ah, Steve?”

“Is…” Steve cleared his throat, fighting for his voice. “Elliot said…and nobody’ll say…and the board…the board said…”

“Elliot called you, right?” Dr. Palmer frowned.

“Yes. He said to come here—”

“Right,” she said, frown deepening. “The computer was acting up—he wasn’t able to update the status, so I told him to call you instead.”

“What?” Peggy said, voice gone cold.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Doesn’t bloody matter,” she said. “ _Nobody_ will tell either of us what the fuck’s going on, and—”

“There’s nothing going on,” the doctor said, obviously confused. “You said Elliot called you.”

“She’s alright, she can be here…” Steve croaked, lest Peggy be sent out of the room. “All Elliot said was to come upstairs. Is…Bucky?”

“Bucky’s fine. He’s in recovery.”

Everything else fell away, save for those two sentences. Steve could hardly hear her over the throbbing in his head as every bit of blood in his body began to pound through his veins. “…too much information…according to plan…larger incision than we thought, but…longer recovery…wake up soon.”

“But—” Steve cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “He’s alive?”

“He’s very much alive,” Dr. Palmer said. “Steve, I’m so sorry. Elliot was supposed to give you a status update, then ask you to come upstairs. I don’t know how that got mixed up. I’ll speak—”

“You might also want to speak to the entirely unhelpful desk staff on this ward,” Peggy snipped.

Dr. Palmer’s brow raised, and while Steve appreciated what Peggy was trying to do, he couldn’t stomach the idea of a screaming match with Bucky’s doctor right now. Not when it wouldn’t change what had happened, which appeared to be miscommunication rather than malice.

“Peg,” he said, touching her arm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s...” Peggy began, then trailed off when she saw his face. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she nodded, looking back at the doctor. “When can Steve see him?”

“As soon as he’s moved into a room, which—” she sighed. “Look, why don’t I see what I can do about getting him a private one?”

Peggy snorted, indicating what she thought of room upgrades as compensation for trauma. Steve, however, would take what he could get in the bastardized monopoly of a healthcare system they had been forced to navigate. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Sure, alright. That’d be…yeah.”

“And can we get the name of your, what, ombudsperson? Patient advocate?” Peggy continued. “Whatever the process is for filing a complaint.”

“Peggy,” Steve said, closing his eyes.

“Steve, it’s alright,” she replied. “I’ll handle this…sheer incompetence. Upgrading the room is a start, though Christ knows it’s not going to make up for what they’ve put you through…”

“I’m not—” he shook his head, giving her a rueful smile. “He’s alive. I don’t give a shit about the rest of it right now. I probably will later but…I’m just fucking tired, Peg.”

The brittle shards of Peggy’s expression smoothed into something sympathetic, and she nodded, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Of course you are, darling. I’m sorry.”

“Believe me,” Steve muttered. “I’m pissed. But if I have to feel one more feeling right now, I’m gonna have a coronary so…” He glanced at Dr. Palmer, who still looked mortified. “How long until he’s ready for visitors?”

“Half an hour, or so?” she offered.

“Great.”

“I’ll ah…go figure out his room.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, waiting until she’d gone before slumping over, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until stars exploded in his vision. “Fucking _fuck._ ”

Peggy took his hands again, cheeks red. “I’m so sorry, Steve, I know I’m a bull in a china shop. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I appreciate your anger,” he said. “I just uh. I think I might be in shock, actually?”

Peggy frowned. “What can I do?”

“I’m so goddamn thirsty,” he admitted, the need for a drink of water suddenly more pressing than anything else on earth.

“Right.” Peggy rose to her feet, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She was gone for less than five minutes, returning with a bottle of water, which she uncapped and pressed into his hands. The cold condensation of the bottle against his skin was shocking, waking his senses, which had gone numb during the brief time she'd been away, which he'd spent staring at the wall, stunned disbelief coursing through him. Heart beating a mile a minute. Poetic, probably, if Bucky lived through the surgery, but Steve died of a heart attack the same day.

“Drink, Steve,” she instructed, moving behind him to rub firm fingers against the tense muscles of his neck.

Under normal circumstances, he might have resented her instruction. As it was, he appreciated the assistance, taking a long, shaky swallow, draining half the bottle and wiping a hand across his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat. “I’m…that was…”

“That was inexcusably incompetent,” she muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Whenever you decide you want to deal with it—file a complaint, whatever it is,” she went on. “I’d be more than happy to bear witness.”

That got a tiny smile from him, and he leaned his head back, resting it against her stomach so he could look at her upside down. “I bet you fuckin’ will.”

Peggy smiled back, bending to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, the smell of her perfume enveloping him, the closeness of her body settling his nerves. Christ, he couldn’t have done this without her.

“Alright?” she murmured.

“Getting there.”

“I’m sure they’ll come and fetch you soon,” she said, going back to the massage.

“You ought to come with me.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not family.”

“Neither am I, technically,” he shrugged.

“Bullshit,” she said, giving his neck a tweak. “Anyhow, it’s you he’s going to want to see—none of us are at our best, coming out of this sort of thing. He shouldn’t feel the need to put on airs and graces because I’m there, too.”

Steve smiled, leaning his head against her hand. “I should call his mother.”

“Yes, you should,” she agreed, releasing her hold and kissing the top of his head.

Steve made the calls—a long one to Bucky’s parents, briefer ones to Freddie and Becca—and it wasn’t long after he hung up that an orderly came to fetch him.

Peggy took her leave outside that hateful beige room, where he gave her a weary smile. “We’ll probably be home tomorrow—I’ll call you?” he offered.

"Please do," she said. "I'll come by when I can. See that you're fed and that you're not driving one another mad."

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Steve. Kindly fuck off and let me.”

“Right.” He laughed, reaching out for one last hug. “Thanks, Frank.”

“Anytime,” she said, kissing his cheek before pulling away.

Once she’d gone, Steve was faced with another long hallway and elevator ride, the orderly leading him to a private room where Bucky was waiting. When Steve opened the door, Bucky’s eyes rolled toward him, half-lidded and dreamy. His body was hooked up to three different drips, and there was a big white bandage covering most of his right shoulder, while his right arm was in a sling.

Bucky blinked twice, confusion evident as he furrowed his brow. It took nearly five seconds before his expression melted into one of recognition.

"Oh, it's you," he said, voice far away. Steve had no idea what drugs they'd given him, but it appeared to be the good stuff.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice as he crossed the room, leaning down to press a kiss against Bucky’s clammy forehead. “Look at you, handsome. How long you been awake?”

“Dunno,” he said. “I saw…”

He trailed off, and Steve waited for him to finish before realizing nothing more was forthcoming. “What’d you see, Buck?”

“Huh? Oh, Steve, hi.”

“Yeah, hi,” he said, latent anxiety at war with his desire to smile.

“I’m awake.”

“I noticed.”

“Did…can’t move m’arm.”

“I know, Buck.”

“Is my mom here?”

Jesus wept. Steve bit his lip. “No, pal, she’s not here. But I called her—let her know you were okay. Do you mind if I stick around, instead?”

“Okay.” Bucky licked his lips, tongue tacky. “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Thirsty.”

There was a cup of water on the tray cart that sat over Bucky’s bed. Steve reached for it, angling the straw past his lips to help him drink, smoothing his hair back from his face as he sucked down a few mouthfuls. “That’s it, Bucky. Good job.”

“I can drink.”

“You absolutely can.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Is my mom here?”

So, it was going to be like that. Steve tamped down a laugh, putting the water back on the cart before repeating his answer about Winnie. After that, he pulled over the hideous pink visitor’s chair from the corner, getting comfortable while waiting for Bucky to repeat the question.

He got to know that chair pretty well, in the end, as it was where he slept that night. Tried to, anyway—nurses were in and out, checking on Bucky and waking them both in the process. Bucky was muzzy the whole time, occasionally asking for water, or juice, or pudding. He wasn’t much company, but Steve had never been happier to be at his side.

The next day, Bucky was discharged around noon. Steve splurged for a ludicrously expensive taxi ride back to Brooklyn, because what was the point of doing all that work for Rebirth if not to take care of his fella now and again?

When the taxi pulled up to the curb in front of their building, he was surprised to see Peggy already sitting on the stoop, duffel bag at her side. He’d called her to let her know Bucky had been discharged, but she hadn’t mentioned coming over that day.

“Izzat Peggy?” Bucky mumbled, lifting his head from Steve’s shoulder, having spent the better part of the ride dozing.

“It sure is.”

“Did we know she was coming?”

“She uh…said she might stop by, yeah.”

Bucky grinned, sinking his teeth into the fabric of Steve’s shirt, then giving it a shake. “I like Peggy. I’m glad she’s here.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, opening the door to the taxi as Peggy got to her feet. “Me, too.”

 

## 1993

So, like, Steve had a boyfriend and a girlfriend now?

That was strange. A strange circumstance. A strange thing to wrap his head around. Which he hadn't yet because it had just happened the previous evening, so he'd been up most of the night hemming and hawing over what the fuck it _meant_.

Because if Bucky was his boyfriend and Peggy was his girlfriend, did that mean Peggy was Bucky’s girlfriend, too? Or Bucky was Peggy’s boyfriend? Or vice versa? Or both? That part was the strangest part, considering Steve was pretty sure that Bucky and Peggy didn’t even _like_ each other all that much.

Except for how they’d kissed. That had made it look like they liked each other a _lot_.

Which was another thing: the whole ‘hang out together’ idea had been proposed by Peggy as, like, a way for Bucky to apologize for kissing Steve. For all of them to mend fences. So the evening ending with Peggy and Bucky _making out_ hadn't exactly been on the agenda. But it had happened. And then Bucky and Steve had made out. And then, like, Peggy had put her hand on Bucky's thigh, and Steve had, too, and they'd both been in the vicinity of uh, some stuff. Which, like, that was cool. Except Steve wasn't sure how he felt about getting up close and personal with Bucky's boner. Mostly because he'd only ever been up close and personal with his _own_ boner. Another dick, at this point in his life, felt like a lot.

He finally fell into a fitful sleep around four, waking at seven with a sick, guilty feeling in his middle. Had he done something wrong by allowing the whole kissing thing to happen? Maybe he should have stopped them because it was…well, it wasn’t _normal_. Although, like, who was the czar of _normal_ , anyway? Some jizz-sticks would say his feelings for Bucky weren't normal, but his feelings for Peggy were totally fine. And those jizz-sticks were idiots. Still, three people in a relationship felt decidedly outside the realm of what even non-idiot people would think was an everyday, average experience.

Anxiety tightening like an out-of-tune guitar string, he fretted his way through breakfast with his mother, who watched him with a raised eyebrow as he spooned cereal into his mouth double-time.

“You got somewhere to be today, kid?” she teased, still in her scrubs.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Going out with Peggy?”

Steve jumped, like, a full three feet in the air at Peggy’s name, which was a very normal, very chill reaction. “I dunno!” he repeated.

“Everything alright with you guys?” Sarah asked with a raised brow.

Ugh, of course, she was picking on him. Because she either had telepathic powers, or the three of them were super bad actors. Probably the former. Sarah had gotten home in time to catch them sitting about forty miles apart on the sofa, having hastily split upon hearing her key in the lock. She never would have guessed what they'd _actually_ been doing, but they stammered through an awkward greeting all the same, painfully aware of the fact that they’d been making out in front of Harrison Ford, like, ten seconds before she walked in.

“We’re fine,” he gritted.

“Alright,” she said, taking him at his word. “Oh, I meant to ask, are you guys gonna do something for your birthday?”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you at some point on the day,” she teased. “So whenever you want your cake, you let me know. You can hang out with her the rest of the time.”

“I’m not—” he cleared his throat. “I don’t, uh. I’m not sure she remembers it’s my birthday.”

“Maybe you should tell her.”

“That’s lame, ma. Like, I don’t need her to throw me some dumb party.”

“I never said a party. But take my word for it—if I was dating a guy who didn’t tell me about his birthday, I would think _that_ was lame.”

“I guess,” he muttered, not sure why she was making a big deal out of it. They were ten days away from his turning sixteen, and what did it matter if Peggy knew? The entire _country_ shared his birthday, so it wasn’t like he ever had some big celebration. “She and Sharon are probably gonna watch them blow up the East River.”

“Go with them. Make it a date. You could invite Bucky!”

“Maaaaaa!”

“What?” she laughed. “Jesus, you’re in a mood, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me Stevie.”

“Then don’t whine like you’re five.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, cramming as big a mouthful of Cheerios as he could manage into his mouth, then standing and leaving his milk-full bowl behind. “Whatever,” he mumbled around the rapidly solidifying mass of cereal.

“Not your maid!” Sarah called, the disapproval in her voice following him to his bedroom, where he slammed the door and fell face down onto his bed.

He’d clean it up later.

It was fine.

He was fine.

He was—

The taped-together phone by his bed began to ring, jarring him from his thoughts.

“Fuuuu-huck,” he muttered, rolling his face against the mattress.

Less than a minute later, his mother called out, “it’s _Bucky_.”

Yep. Course it was Bucky. Steve reached for the cracked receiver, pressing it to his ear and turning on his side because the speaker was shot to shit, so it was easier to hear if he smushed it against the bed. "I got it, ma," he said, waiting for the tell-tale click of her hanging up before speaking. "Hey, Buck."

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

"Uh. Nothing. I was just like…you wanna hang out? I don't work today."

“Sure,” Steve said, brain trained to accept Bucky’s invitations without question. “Should we invite Peggy?”

Bucky stayed quiet for a minute, and Steve could hear the sound of him chewing his fingernails on the other end of the line. Gross. “I mean. Like, probably, right?”

“We don’t—” Steve frowned. “You shouldn’t feel, like, _obligated_?”

“I don’t feel obligated. It’s just…” he trailed off with a pointed sigh.

“What?”

“Just, you know. Whatever. You guys wanna come over?”

“I guess.”

“The twins are here.”

“They usually are.”

Bucky laughed, breaking a bit of the tension. “I just mean, like, we’ll need to hang out in my room to avoid them.”

“That’s different than normal because…?”

“Shut up. You should call Peggy.”

“Okay.”

“And um—” There was another long pause, and Bucky blew out a breath. “The stuff we did last night? I’m not like…I just don’t want it to be weird?”

“It’s not gonna be weird if we don’t make it weird,” Steve pointed out.

"Yeah. That's true," Bucky agreed like Steve was some wise old philosopher. "So uh, I'll see you guys in a while?"

“Yep. Bye, Buck.”

“Bye.”

 

* * *

 

Steve met Peggy in the park across from Bucky’s building. She’d arrived first, and was sitting on the picnic table, cigarette in hand, pretty and poised in a pair of dark jeans and a tight, white t-shirt that showed the outline of her bra. That shouldn’t have been the first thing he noticed, but hey, she was the one with the boobs.

When he reached her, she smiled, and he didn’t hesitate before kissing her cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, her relief evident when he pulled back. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

Hand-in-hand, they crossed the street, and Steve buzzed up to Bucky’s apartment. Seconds later, Freddie’s voice came over the line (he knew it was Freddie, because of the lisp), followed by Becca’s admonishment _not_ to answer the door unless Bucky _said_.

“Dummies, it’s me,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

“Who’s _me_?” Freddie pressed.

“Yeah! Who’s me?”

“What’s the password?”

“Yeah, what’s the password?”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, as Peggy tried not to laugh. “Please go get your brother?”

“We can’t if you’re a stranger—” There was a shriek. A scuffle. The buzzer buzzed.

They headed into the lovingly worn lobby of Bucky’s building, then onto the elevator. The Barnes family had more money than Steve and Sarah—that was indisputable fact—so their building, while not super fancy, had wider hallways and updated amenities. Smelled better, too.

The door to Bucky’s place was open, and he was standing in the entry, leaning against the wall with a sheepish smile on his face. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry about the monsters.”

“They’re getting worse,” Steve said.

Nothing, said Peggy, who was uncharacteristically quiet as Bucky led them inside, where they found freckle-faced Freddie and Becca sitting amidst an array of Barbie dolls in the living room.

“Who’s that?” Becca asked when she saw Peggy, as Freddie let out a delighted shriek of, “Steve!” and flung herself at his legs.

“Jesus, Fred!” Bucky said, hauling her away. “Leave him alone.”

“Ummmmmmmmmmm,” Becca pointed her index finger at Bucky and put a hand over her mouth. “You swoooooooore, I’m telling mooooooo-om!”

"How're you gonna tell mom when I throw you out a window?" Bucky shot back, the threat enough to make her shriek with fear and delight. Doubly so when he lunged at her as if he might actually be in the mood for defenestration.

Peggy tightened her grip on Steve’s hand, shrinking back from the domestic tableau, watching as Bucky once more disentangled Freddie from Steve’s legs before pinning Becca to the ground and pretend-tickling her sides until she swore she wouldn’t tell their mom he’d used God’s name in vain.

“You two,” Bucky said imperiously, rising to his feet once the cacophony died down. “Better stay out here. _Don’t_ bug us.”

“What if there’s a fire,” Freddie said with a dramatic lilt.

“I guess you can bug us if there’s a fire,” he conceded.

“What if there’s a _robber_!” Becca gasped.

“Look,” Bucky said. “You guys are eleven now, I feel like you ought to be able to take care of a robber by yourselves.”

“Buckyyyyyyyyy!” They chorused, throwing themselves at him, though he shook them off with ease.

“Knock. It. Off!” he admonished, steering Peggy and Steve down the small hallway that led to his tiny room. The Barnes’ apartment wasn’t _officially_ a three-bedroom, so Bucky’s folks had stuck his twin bed in what was supposed to be an office, though it was more like a glorified closet. Still, it beat sharing a room with his sisters.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, shutting the door behind them with a grin. “They’re like…idiots, I dunno. They had sugary cereal.”

“Yep,” Steve agreed. “They’re being dumber than usual.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’re really lovely with them,” Peggy interjected—the first thing she’d said since entering the apartment—an awkward phrase which gathered moss while she stared at Bucky with the same odd expression she’d had in the living room.

“Uh…I guess,” Bucky said, offering her a shrug and a crooked smile, gesturing to his bed. “You guys should sit.”

Steve took the invitation, flopping onto Bucky’s worn, grey comforter, breathing in the scent of his Bucky-ness, because that was what one did in Bucky’s room. Peggy, meanwhile, crossed to the opposite wall to peer at the three trophies sitting on a shelf above his half-sized desk. “What are those for?”

“Uh, track, mostly,” he said. “And one’s for, like, this math competition I did?”

“Huh.” Peggy nodded, attention shifting to the shoddily assembled plank-and-cinderblock shelving he had built beneath his open window. “You read?”

“Of course I read,” he scoffed. “Jesus.”

“I only meant—”

“Nah,” he said, waving it off. “I know you don’t think much of me.”

The matter-of-fact observation brought Peggy up short. For a moment, Steve worried they were about to start fighting. Instead, she shrugged, running her fingertips down the spine of Bucky’s well-loved copies of _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. “I didn’t, before. Now…” She looked at him, offering a shyer smile than she’d ever offered Steve. “I might’ve been _slightly_ off in my assumptions.”

“Oh?” Bucky asked, taking a step closer.

“Mmm. I’m beginning to think I only let myself see what I wanted to see.”

“And what’d you want to see?” he pressed.

Steve was no genius when it came to other people, but he was pretty sure they were _flirting_. Like, really flirting. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch, torn between latent jealousy and finding it kinda sexy. Peggy with Bucky was different from Peggy with him. Shit, she’d been bold and brash with him from moment one—ballsy, even—which was one of the reasons he liked her. Bucky, though, brought out something different, though what that was, Steve couldn’t yet name.

“I thought you were arrogant,” she said. “That you were trying to be cool, and—”

Bucky grinned. “That’s all true. But go on.”

“I thought you were stupid.”

“Huh.” He took another step, stopping in front of her. “You don’t think that anymore?”

“No.”

“Whaddaya see now?”

Peggy smiled. God, they were _so_ close. She could touch him if she wanted to. Steve wanted her to want to. Wanted her to kiss him. Wanted to watch.

“I see…” she said, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. “I see the bloke Steve’s been telling me you were.”

“Yeah? What’d Steve say about me?”

“He said you were a good brother. A good friend. Kind. Decent.”

“Decent?” Bucky’s smile widened, and he rounded on Steve, crossing the room in two quick strides to drop down at his side. Steve hardly realized what had happened before Bucky was giving him a disgusting, wet kiss on the cheek. “Awwwwww, _Stevie_.”

“Bucky, don’t _call_ me—”

“We shouldn’t be awkward about all this,” Peggy declared as she sat down at Steve’s other side, interrupting his admonishment.

“Uh?” Steve blinked, caught between the two of them. “About?”

“I rather hoped we wouldn’t have to hash it all out again,” she continued.

“Do. Except…” Steve trailed off because he’d tried starting two different sentences, neither of which had worked.

“I think, like, Steve wants to make it awkward, though?” Bucky teased.

“Shut up, Bucky.”

“Hey, pal, you’re the one—”

“Just, like—” He cut Bucky off before he could get too far into whatever dumb joke he’d been attempting. “Can we clarify, like, one thing?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, as Peggy nodded.

“Like, okay, are we _all_ a couple? Or, a trio, or like…how does this _work_?”

“If we knew that, then we’d know,” Peggy pointed out.

“Thanks, that helps,” he muttered. “I just don’t want any of us getting mad, or whatever.”

“Why would we get mad?” Bucky asked.

"Because like…what are the rules of engagement?" Steve scowled. "Do we all have to be together before we make out, or can we like…make out separately, or…"

“Thinking with your dick first, Steve, I like that.”

“Shut _up_ , Bucky.”

“He’s right, though,” Peggy said. “We ought to talk about that side of things, I suppose.”

Bucky made a face, rolling onto his back. “Why, though?” he countered. “Or, like, why do we have to have some official _discussion_? Let’s try not being assholes to each other, and if you feel like someone’s being an asshole, just say so?”

“Hmm,” Peggy said. “I quite like that.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Steve frowned.

“Yes, it does,” Bucky shrugged. “Like, hypothetically, if I’m hanging out with Peggy, and we’re making out, but you’re not there, would you feel like we were being assholes?”

“You guys never hang out if I’m not there.”

“ _Hypothetically_ , Steve.”

“Okay, okay.” He frowned, giving himself a gut check over the scenario. “Uh…kind of? I guess? I dunno. Maybe kissing’s alright, but nothing more than that?”

“Cool,” Bucky said. “Kissing’s alright. We’re not assholes for kissing.”

“I’m no expert,” Peggy said, pulling her legs onto the bed so she could sit cross-legged, looking down at both of them. “But nothing about this arrangement is conventional, so no arseholes is a decent way of moving forward. Except…” she frowned. “Does it sound stupid when I say arseholes?”

“Yes,” said Bucky.

“Kind of,” nodded Steve.

“Assholes,” she said with an American twang, before shaking her head in disgust. “No. Let’s call it shitheads.”

Bucky and Steve could agree to that, and they nodded in unison.

"Right," Peggy said. "No shitheads. If you feel like someone's a shithead, you say so. That's the rule. Agreed?"

“Agreed,” Steve said, extending his hand for her to shake.

“Agreed,” Bucky smiled, dropping his palm over both of theirs, gripping tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, yes! Whew, that was a lot. And if you're sitting there thinking, "gosh, that seems unrealistically dramatic for the medical portion of our tale," let me just tell you, friends: I was exorcising some personal demons there, as that exact situation happened to my dad when my mother was in surgery over the holidays this past season. Only he didn't have a Peggy there to help him. Am I still angry? You bet your ass I am. Was writing about it cathartic? Sort of, but then I got mad all over again.


	11. feel better

**Only the one that hurts you** **  
****Can make you feel better** **  
** _-Madonna_

 

## 2005

Peggy had intended on staying for a night. To settle them in; make sure they had what they needed before taking her leave. But one night turned into two, then three, and suddenly she was at their place more often than her own, bearing food or supplies or simply as a respite for Steve, who needed it more than he let on. Because it was challenging to be constantly vigilant, hardly sleeping, worrying over Bucky's every need. Peggy's presence in the flat meant that he could shower, or shave, or tumble into bed for an hour or two while she stretched out on the couch next to Bucky's throne. (Rather, Steve's grandfather's recliner, set up to accommodate him, as he hadn't been able to get comfortable lying down.)

Whether or not Steve could have managed on his own wasn't up for debate—he was himself, so he would have figured it out. All the same, Peggy was grateful for the opportunity to help; to spend time with them after that long, frightening morning at the hospital when she'd been convinced, alongside Steve, that something had gone terribly wrong. Neither of them had mentioned the incident to Bucky, though, as he was in remarkably good humor, and it would only upset him. Of course, he was in pain—anyone with eyes could see that—but he staunchly refused anything stronger than Tylenol after that first night. Peggy had tutted at him about being a martyr while fluffing the pillow behind his head, only to have Bucky tell her, with grim forthrightness, about the men he'd served with who'd come home to fall victim to addiction. He wasn't, as he put it, about to be "some goddamn statistic."

So, she left it alone, even if leaving it alone meant watching him struggle, face pained and pinched whenever Steve helped him up and down the hall to the loo.

On the nights she stayed over, Steve slept on the couch, while she took their bedroom. Occasionally, she'd wake to the sound of their voices, or the slow shuffle of feet as Steve forced Bucky on one of his thrice-daily walks, which were important in aiding recovery. The first day, Bucky made it as far as the front corridor before he put his foot down. The second, to the bottom of the stairs and back. By the third, grim determination got him to the end of the block, shaking with the effort by the time Steve got him home. Peggy had never thought much about how one's back and shoulders affected movement, having taken her health for granted all her life, but watching Bucky, she sent up a quick prayer to whatever god might be listening thanking them for her good fortune.

As the first week turned into the second, she kept defaulting to Brooklyn at the end of the workday, returning home late into the evening, if at all. Steve had taken leave from his job, and though they hadn't mentioned money, Peggy knew he was working on a few Rebirth projects in what scant spare time he had. They fell into a comfortable routine, those nights she came over, Bucky dozing while she and Steve watched a film, or listened to a new artist she was considering. Bucky slept a lot, in fact, that first week. Gradually, though, he began to improve. Slept less. Spoke more. Ate with gusto rather than because Steve was forcing him to, though that might have been on account of the marijuana, which Steve had painstakingly baked into brownies, as Bucky couldn't smoke, lest he cough and hurt his shoulder. The edibles did the trick, though, and Bucky insisted they helped with the pain. Peggy had no idea if that was true, but by the time they were ten days into Bucky's recovery, he was stoned more often than he was sober.

On the evening of that tenth day, Bucky declared he wanted curry—no more frozen shit, as he put it—which had to be a good sign. Peggy placed the order, then beat Steve to the punch when it came to paying, the three of them settling in the living room with trays perched on their laps. Peggy was mostly concerned with feeding herself, while Steve fed both himself and Bucky, whose arm would be in the sling for a while longer yet, and his prosthetic couldn’t be worn so long as his injuries were healing.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky was napping, while Steve and Peggy fought over the last of the naan, some nonsense shoot-em-up Bucky had chosen on the television. The film had no plot to speak of, but considering Bucky's state of mind, he couldn't have followed anything more complicated.

“We gotta…we gotta do it for Paulie, kid,” she said, parroting the atrocious dialogue with a giggle and a snort, gripping Steve’s shoulder.

“He died, so’s we could live,” Steve agreed with a slow, solemn blink.

“Would you two shut up?” Bucky grumbled, opening his pot-dreamy eyes. “I’m tryin’ to watch this.”

“Is that what you’re doing, pal?” Steve smiled. “We thought you were trying to sleep.”

“Not trying,” Bucky sighed, cracking his neck and wincing. “Shit.”

Steve sobered instantly. “Alright?”

“Yeah. Just tight.”

“You want me to get you—?”

“Steve. I’m fine.”

Steve settled down, a frown marring his features. “You’re sure?”

"Uh-huh," Bucky said, turning back to the movie, which had just hit the big, ending battle sequence (or so Peggy assumed, given the number of bullets being fired).

She took the opportunity to take one final swig of her beer, then set the empty on the table before settling against the couch cushions. Steve smiled at her, the two of them close enough that when his head fell to her shoulder a couple minutes later, she didn’t think a thing of it.

Bucky, however, had a thought or two, and he turned to them the moment the credits started rolling. “You two look cozy.”

Steve jumped, sitting up and combing his fingers through his hair like Peggy's shoulder had been preventing him from doing so. "Sorry," he mumbled.

“Yes, right,” Peggy said, sitting straight as a pin and reaching for the leftover takeout containers. “I should—”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky said, eyes moving between them from where he sat, near enough to touch, king of his worn, corduroy throne.

“Do…what?” she asked.

“Jump up like I caught you doing something wrong.”

“I…we weren’t.”

“A little bit, you were,” he countered.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice was a warning.

A smile spread itself across Bucky’s face. “What’d I do? Movie’s over, pal. I’m starved for entertainment.”

Peggy frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"Means you should kiss him if you want to."

The bluntness of the offer was a surprise, though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Bucky had always shown his cards first, whether it was in petting her hair whilst pretending it was a tassel or…well. Other things. Which, certainly Peggy had _thought_ about it—Christ knew their kisses had been on her mind since Steve informed her that no, actually, they weren’t in an open relationship—but thinking was very different than doing.

How had she gotten here again? “I ah—” she stammered.

“Bucky,” Steve repeated, sharper now. “Leave her alone.”

“Aw, what?” Bucky shot back, tone perfectly even. “My shoulder hurts, and I’m bored, and I always liked watching you two kiss, so…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Peggy muttered, leaning over to press her lips against Steve’s for a chaste peck, then pulling back. “There you go. He’s been kissed.”

“Yeah, there,” Steve agreed.

“Nah,” Bucky said.

“I need to be drunker for this,” she said, attempting a joke rooted in truth.

“Why?” Bucky challenged. “Harder to overthink when you’re out of your head?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But do you _want_ to?”

“Bucky…” she said, helplessly.

“It’s a simple question, Maggie. Do you want to kiss Steve?”

Peggy shrugged, cheeks going hot. It was rare for anyone to get a blush out of her, but Bucky Barnes had never been just anyone. “Fine. Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“First of all,” Steve broke in, and she glanced down to see that his hand was fisting a cushion so tightly his knuckles had gone white. “We need to think…”

“Shithead,” Bucky shot back.

"You can't—Bucky, we're not kids anymore!"

"Sure, I can. I'm the sick one, and I can't touch either of you, so I'm just saying…this is what I want. This is what's gonna make me feel better. And since neither of you feels like a shithead about it…unless, do you?"

Peggy’s mouth twitched. If Bucky hadn’t been feeling so lousy, she would have reached over to slug him in the arm for being such a brat. “Steve,” she said drily.

“What?”

“Do _you_ feel like a shithead?”

“I…please tell me you’re not on his side.”

Peggy shrugged, because Christ, it had been a long ten days. A long twelve years. “Promise you won’t hate me in the morning?”

“ _Peggy_.”

“Oh, Steve, what’s the harm?” she said, even though she knew precisely what the harm was. Knew she’d be the one harmed in the end. But if she was going to fuck things up, she was going to fuck things up spectacularly. In such grand fashion as the world hadn’t seen from her since she was fifteen and finding an ever-so-creative way to get herself expelled from school.

Scales of morality apparently balancing, Steve leaned in and kissed her, deep and firm and far better than the peck Peggy had planted on him, lifting a hand to her cheek with surety, turning her head as his thumb caught beneath her jaw, stroking the soft skin there. She closed her eyes and parted her lips, running her tongue along the seam of Steve’s closed mouth while her left hand fell to the couch, covering his gripped-tight fingers with her own. The opposite hand moved to his chest, where she could feel the beating of his heart beneath the hooded sweatshirt he wore, like the ticking of some ancient scarab; some deathwatch beetle biding its time.

(Fucking _dramatics_ , Carter. Nut up, honestly.)

Behind and beside them, Bucky shifted. Steve broke the kiss, and they turned to find him staring, rapt, with a smile on his face and a queer look in his eyes.

“Do that again,” he said, voice low.

Peggy initiated the kiss the second time, curling her fingers into the firmness of Steve's pectoral and drawing him back to her, the shade of her day-worn lipstick visible on his parted mouth. She bit down lightly on that damnable pout, bringing forth a grunt and a laugh.

Steve slid one hand to her waist, fingers spanning her torso. Instinctively, Peggy sucked in a breath, which only made him tighten his hold. Drawing her closer as she lifted her left hand to his hair, running it through the shaggy locks, then catching hold of a handful.

When they split for a second time, Steve’s attention didn’t shift. He stayed with her, foreheads resting together, mouths inches apart. She could taste him on her tongue—the heat of the curry, the beer, and something unmistakably _Steve_.

“Isn’t she pretty, Stevie?” Bucky said, voice quiet.

“She’s real pretty, Buck,” Steve agreed, and then his mouth was on hers again, the third kiss moving past curiosity and into desire.

Peggy took the first step toward what was beginning to feel inevitable, shifting her weight so she could slide one denim-covered leg over his lap. Straddled him, jeans pulled taut against her thighs, tits at eye-level as she broke the kiss, looking down with a grin.

“Hi,” she said, voice sounding foreign to her ears. As if this all might melt away and she’d wake up in her old bed, in her mother’s house, some strange, lonely wisp of a dream slipping through her fingers.

“Hi,” Steve said, a hitch in his voice.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky mumbled.

“Gosh, Steve,” she stage-whispered. “I thought Bucky _wanted_ to watch us kiss?”

“Pretty sure he did, Frank,” Steve agreed, big hands sipping down to her ass, thumbs hooking in her back pockets.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky said.

“I think we ought to make him regret asking,” she said.

Steve, who’d never met a challenge he couldn’t sock in the jaw, grinned. That was all the go-ahead she required, so she kissed him again. Harder. Needier. Tangled both hands in his hair, forcing his head back so she could kiss her way down his jaw. Across his neck, biting hard just to hear him let loose a strangled yelp. He grabbed her ass and _squeezed_ in response, trapping her against the heat of him. Swallowed, so she could feel the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. She licked at the mark she’d made, then left another, working him over with tongue and teeth until she was satisfied he’d have at least a couple of bruises.

Steve’s hands shifted as she worked, one staying on her ass while the other slid under the hem of her blouse. Palm resting against the small of her sticky back, sweat pooling thanks to the late-summer heat, and lack of ventilation.

“Can I?” he mumbled, pressing kisses against her hair as she nipped at his collarbone.

"Yes, alright," she agreed, because if this were, indeed, a fever dream, it would be an even better one naked. Half-naked.

Steve tugged her blouse over her head, leaving her in the hard-worn bra she'd explicitly purchased for keeping the girls wrangled at work. Practicality over sexuality, the bra was more vice grip than vixen, but Steve didn't seem to mind, nosing his way into her cleavage like a dog digging for an especially enticing bone.

“Good boy,” she teased, tapping her index finger against the back of his head, then glancing over her shoulder to check on Bucky, who’d gone silent.

He was staring right at her, mouth half-open, a desperate, needy look in his eyes.

“Hi,” she mouthed, holding steady eye-contact.

“Hi,” he said, blinking twice and oh, he was lovely like that.

“Hmm?” Steve said, lifting his head.

“We can stop,” she offered.

Bucky shook his head, voice hoarse. “No, please don’t…”

“Buck?” Steve sounded worried now, even as the fingers of his left hand traced the curve of Peggy’s spine.

“Jesus, Steve.” Bucky cleared his throat. “I can’t…you gotta touch her for me, pal. Just, take it off her, please?”

Peggy had to admire Bucky’s ingenuity—cruise directing from the cockpit, as it were. Steve looked like he might raise a protest, but she wasn’t about to make Bucky ask twice. He’d made himself clear, so she was going to give him the dignity of his desire. Twisting her arms back, she unclasped the four hooks and let the bra fall away, ribcage expanding after a day of compression and restriction. Jesus, was there any better feeling in the world?

“Holy fuck,” Steve muttered. Peggy supposed that was a fair response—the last time he’d been so close to her tits, she’d been a cup-size smaller.

“Touch her,” Bucky said.

Peggy grinned at him. “Aren’t you a generous bo—oh, _fuck_.” Steve’s mouth closed over her left nipple, tongue flicking as it stiffened under his attention. Christ, _Christ_! For someone with limited tit-sperience he was…oh, fuck, what did it matter? A nipple was a nipple, and _God_ , his mouth was warm and wet and perfectly suited to the task. She bit her bottom lip, closing her eyes and tangling a hand in his hair, holding him against her until he lifted his head with a sheepish smile.

"Your turn," she said before he could say something reverent or mawkish. Steve raised a brow, confused as to her meaning, so she gathered the soft cotton of his t-shirt in her hands, then tugged it over his head, revealing a body that was much changed from the skinny, sallow one of her remembrances, with its visible ribcage and knobby spine. Steve was still pale; still had that long, thin scar running down his chest. Still had a smattering of freckles on his shoulders, even. But otherwise, he was brand new, with the body of a grown-up endlessly chasing the pursuit of liking himself better than he had at fifteen.

"You're gorgeous," she said, and being as turnabout was fair play, she gave his nipple a rather rough pinch, appreciative of the new-to-her chest hair he was sporting. Steve yelped. She shut him up with a raw, greedy kiss, and now they were teetering on the edge of something—the point of no return—and it would take only the softest breath of wind to blow them over.

“You’re both fuckin’ gorgeous,” Bucky echoed, and oh: there was the wind. “You got any idea how…Jesus Christ.”

Peggy lifted her head, extricating herself from Steve’s lap and standing. She took one step to Bucky’s chair and leaned down to kiss him. “You wanted entertainment, didn’t you?” she asked upon pulling away.

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright, then. You can watch.”

After that, she returned to the couch, where she nudged Steve to the side before stretching out on her back, head near the arm, legs twisted so her feet were on the floor. Steve took the hint, covering her body with his own, and God, he was so much _bigger_ now—heavy and strong. There were very few men she'd trust to pin her down that way. Very few men to whom she'd show that amount of vulnerability, when the tug in her gut said _he’s stronger than you he could hurt you he could kill you he could_.

The thing was, with Steve, she felt she was still in control. She’d always felt that way with him. Powerful as she shifted her bottom half, drawing her legs onto the sofa and wrapping one around his waist. Pulled their bodies flush. Felt the length of his thickening cock against her thigh. His cheeks went pink with the realization that she _knew_ , and he tried to lift his hips, only to have her trap him with a laugh and a raised brow.

“What?” she teased. “Not like he’s such a _stranger_.”

“Peggy—”

“Bucky,” she said primly, catching Bucky’s eye by craning her neck. “Steve’s embarrassed that he’s hard.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one,” Bucky said, eyes bright.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Should I do something about that?”

“Not…” Bucky swallowed, shaking his head. “Not yet.”

“No?”

“Nope. I uh…I think he ought to earn it.”

“Oh _really_?” she said, at the same time Steve frowned and muttered, “uh, earn it?”

“Yep,” Bucky said. “Use that smart mouth for something useful, for once.”

Peggy laughed out loud, turning to Steve, who looked mortified. “Well?”

He ducked his head. “I uh. I’ve never _done_ that…”

“Suck a cock, lick a cunt,” she said, prim tone serving to make him blush harder. “You’re a smart boy, surely you can manage?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Anyway, I thought you liked a challenge, Steve.”

There it was: The Steve Rogers Stubborn Streak, and didn’t Bucky just have his number? Peggy tried not to laugh as his face settled into a mask of steely determination before he began none-too-delicately unbuttoning her jeans. She stopped him before he could get too far with a literal kick to the arse, heel thumping against his backside.

“Oi, Rogers!”

“Ow! What?”

“Take your bloody trousers off first!”

“But— “

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky agreed. “Take _your_ bloody trousers off first.”

"You two should take that show on the road," he muttered, the makings of a smile on his face as he stood and undid the strings of his trackies, not a lick of hesitation on his face before he pushed them down, boxers and all.

Peggy didn’t like to stare, though it was hard not to give his prick the _briefest_ of glances, if only to note that his latent growth spurt had affected more than his height. Looking back at his face, she found him watching her closely, seeking approval.

“Yes, alright, it’s very nice,” she teased. “Surely you don’t need to hear that from me.”

“I mean—” Steve stammered; Bucky snorted.

"You can take mine off now if you like."

Steve grinned, kicking his sweats to the side and crawling back onto the couch, where he got to work. Mercifully, she'd worn everyday, black cotton knickers which, while nothing to write home about, hadn't seen the wrong end of an unexpected menses. (Though, considering the speed with which Steve stripped her of her clothing, he wouldn't have noticed.) The grooming situation, on the other hand? He'd simply have to endure it. She hadn't been expecting any visitors, was all.

As Steve tossed her jeans to the side, it struck Peggy that they’d never actually gotten this far before. For all the worldliness she’d believed herself to possess at sixteen, she’d only let them get as far as fingering her once or twice, their awkward fumblings never accomplishing much more than a few tingles in her belly. Which made this encounter new territory for all of them, but most especially for Steve, who licked his lips and contemplated his position.

“So uh—” he glanced at Bucky. “Do I just…?”

“Hell if I know, pal.”

“It’s not _astrophysics,_ " she said, with a roll of her eyes. "Get down there, and I'll tell you if I like it."

“Bossy, bossy.”

“It’s _my_ cunt.”

“That’s…true.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just _go_.”

“Alright, alright,” he grinned, scooting away, then performing a maneuver that, hilariously, involved hoisting her legs onto his shoulders and well, err, getting his face down there.

Peggy began to giggle. How could she not when he’d flipped her arse over teakettle?

Steve lifted his head, looking like a kicked puppy, and he hadn’t even gotten a proper lick in, the dear.

“Oh, darling…” she snorted. “You’re so…that was…honestly, did you see that in a porn?”

The guilty look on his face gave him away. Peggy tried to stifle her laughter. “Ah, be a lamb and put me down?”

Steve did as he was told, cheeks bright red. A glance at Bucky showed that he was having trouble keeping his shit together as well, bottom lip sucked between his teeth.

Peggy snorted, because there was something so deliriously silly about lying there with her legs splayed, as if Steve were her gynecologist, while his face went through an entire range of emotion, from mortified, to annoyed, to sullen, then right back to sheepish.

“Alright,” she said, reaching for his hand and bringing it to her lips for a quick kiss. “Let’s try again. I’m going to lie here, feet planted, and you are going to…bend down and figure it out.”

“I…yeah,” he muttered, cheeks still crimson. To his credit, however, he went right back in, and his second attempt at cunnilingus was markedly better than his first, Peggy’s feet staying grounded the entire time—one on the sofa, calf resting against the back, while the other moving to the ground, giving him easier access.

He was hesitant at first, tongue tentatively lapping at her in a way that certainly didn’t feel _bad_ , but wasn’t revving her engines, either. Still, positive reinforcement never hurt, so she shifted her weight, running her left hand through his hair. “That’s much better, Steve.”

The praise worked wonders, with Steve redoubling his efforts, much to her delight. (Still hadn’t found her clit, but that was alright—they had time). She once more craned her neck to catch Bucky’s eye, giving him a wink, which he met with a smile and an arched brow. Peggy, who felt no need to hold a conversation, reached over to rest her right hand on his knee, giving it a squeeze.

That was the moment Steve both discovered her clit and remembered he had two perfectly good hands. Using his left one to part her lips, he made first clitoral contact with a flick of the tongue, causing Peggy to gasp, back arching and fingers tightening on Bucky’s leg, an involuntary shudder rolling through her.

Steve pulled back in an instant, obviously terrified he’d done something wrong.

“No, you _pillock_ ,” she groaned, the fingers of her free hand tangling in his hair as she pushed him down. “Keep _doing_ that.”

Steve mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “yes, ma’am.” Peggy wasn’t remotely qualified to process that in her current state of mind, so she compartmentalized the oddity for later as he got back to work, all of him sweet and eager to please. Sloppy? Yes. Clumsy? Sure. But for his first time out, the fact that he was getting a rise out of her at all was nothing short of a miracle.

It helped that Bucky was there. That he kept his eyes fixed on hers. Licked his lips whenever she moaned or twitched. Peggy hated that he couldn’t touch her; hated that he was so removed. She wanted him closer. Wanted his hand. Wanted to kiss him while Steve kept making her feel good, making her feel—oh, right there! That was the spot! She groaned, free hand moving from Steve’s hair to cup her breast, pinching her nipple the way she often did when it was just her, a laptop, and a vibrator.

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky said, voice a low rumble. “She likes that, sweetheart. You should see how she’s lookin’ at me.”

Steve’s response was to move his right hand between her legs, pressing his middle finger against her entrance and, ah, fuck, they were doing that now. Which was good—it was so good! Steve had gotten much better at fingering since the last time, which, of course he had.

God, it had been too fucking long since she’d let someone do this. Nearly a year spent taking care of herself, so she’d forgotten how _glorious_ it felt to give herself over. To allow someone else to take charge of the fiddly bits. Granted, the fact that it was Steve was insane on its surface, and remained insane to its core, but who gave a good god damn so long as he kept moving his tongue against her as if he’d been born to it?

Minutes passed with the slick sound of his mouth on her cunt filling the room, and she became increasingly aware that this wasn’t going to get her off. She was too caught up in her head to let go, and more than that: she wanted something beyond his tongue. She wanted _him_ —all of him—the surety of her desire enough to take her breath away.

“Steve,” she said, nudging him up.

“Mmm?” he asked, eyes heavy-lidded, breathing shallow.

Peggy smiled, drawing him into a kiss, tasting herself on his lips before letting him go.

“Did you…?” he asked, confusion on his face.

“I…no.”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, he looked to Bucky.

Peggy couldn’t help smiling. “You did _very_ well, darling,” she soothed. “It’s only…”

“What?”

“Well.” She bit her lip. “If Bucky says it’s alright, I want you to fuck me.”

Steve looked thunderstruck. Bucky choked on his tongue as Peggy squeezed his leg.

“What do you think, Bucky?” she asked. “You’re in charge.”

“That’s. Uh. I mean…yes, but…” he stammered his way through something resembling permission.

“But what?”

“We uh. We don’t have condoms.”

Of course, they didn't. Neither of them was about to get bloody pregnant. "Damn it."

“Sorry,” Steve said, hangdog expression on his crooked, handsome face.

Peggy’s bad-decision brain kicked into high gear, and this time she couldn’t blame it on booze. “Fuck me anyway.”

“Huh?” Steve blinked.

It was stupid. She _knew_ it was stupid. But Christ, this might be her only chance. So fuck common sense, and fuck good decisions, because yes, alright, she was horny and hot and her endorphins were encouraging some questionable choices. Any other time, she’d be smarter than this. More level-headed than this. A million more sensible talking points than this.

Except, also? _Fuck. It._

“I’m on the pill,” she said, which was true. “And I’ve had a test, since the last time I fucked anyone.”

“Oh.” Steve swallowed. “Uh…”

“And you two are…you’re only with one another, right? That’s…you said that, at the hospital.”

“Did you think we weren’t?” Bucky said with a frown.

“I wasn’t…I thought maybe.”

“That’s—“ Steve cut in. “Buck? What do you think?”

“You’re definitely on the pill?” Bucky repeated.

“Mmmhmm,” she nodded, using every bit of leverage available to her as she reached down to wrap a hand around Steve’s shaft, causing his hips to jerk forward.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed.

“That’s the general idea, yes,” she agreed, and while she knew it was unbecoming to beg, she found herself doing it all the same. “It’s alright, Steve, please?”

"But it's…"

“Do it, Stevie,” Bucky said, ever the voice of reason. Or madness. Peggy wasn’t sure. Didn’t care.

“Please?” she asked again, working him over with a steady, firm rhythm. “Please, please, please, Steve?”

“Y-yeah, Frank, I just…fuck, okay, I should get the lube or—” He stopped, cheeks reddening. “Uh. Or not. Duh.”

“No, it’s…I think I’ll be alright,” Peggy smiled. She wasn’t above occasional dryness, but considering how well he’d performed earlier, she didn’t think she’d need it.

“So do I just—” Steve shrugged, helpless.

“Oh my God, Steve,” Bucky groaned.

“Shut _up_ , Bucky.”

Peggy turned her head and kissed the inside of his bicep. “You know what to do, love.”

The reassurance did the trick, and with only a scant bit of hesitation, Steve lowered himself down, using one hand to angle his prick, then pushing in, slowly at first. God, but he was bigger than she’d had in quite some time.

“Wait,” she said, sucking in a sharp breath. Rolled her hips and shivered as she adjusted to the feeling.

“Alright?” he murmured, face inches away.

“M’fine,” she agreed. “Kiss me?”

Steve obliged. Brought his mouth to hers and oh, how she wanted him. Luxuriated in the warm weight of him as he opened her up, inch by inch, until he was seated within her, body trembling as he broke the kiss. Pushed himself onto his forearms, hair sticking to his brow.

“What’s it feel like?” Bucky asked after a moment.

“Same,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on hers. “Sort of.”

“I’m sure,” Peggy agreed, sliding her left hand down his sweat-slick spine, legs wrapping around his waist to hold him close. “Wonder if it feels the same when you move.”

“That a hint?” he asked with a grin.

“Think of it as an order.”

His smile widened, and this time there was no mistaking the “yes, ma’am” as he began the work of the evening. Hips setting a steady, confident rhythm while her body shifted, accommodating and welcoming him as they found their way back to one another.

Steve knew what he was doing now, though of course he did—he'd been with Bucky for years—naturally, he'd learned how to fuck along the way. She moved with him, letting him set the pace, soaking up the weight, the pressure, the _fullness_ of him. The Steve-ness of him.

He kept his eyes open; kept them trained on her. Looking like she was the best thing he'd ever seen, gaze so intense that eventually, she couldn't stand it. Pulled him down for a kiss, instead, open-mouthed and panting.

Primal, ridiculous thoughts began to fill her head as Steve quickened the snap of his hips, the sound of skin hitting skin mingling with their heavy breaths. Her fingernails dug into Bucky's thigh, and her brain thought _fuck me_ , so she mewled, "fuck me," and her brain thought _fill me up_ , so she mewled, “fill me up,” and her brain thought _knock me up_ but she didn’t mewl _that_ because Jesus Christ, her fucking hormones. Not that Steve was much better, mumbling a myriad of clichés about how tight she was, how wet she was, how beautiful she was.

Steve's stamina proved ridiculous as he worked into her time and again, though they never switched positions because something in her refused to let go of Bucky's leg. The angles of his thrusts, at least, he managed to change a few times, sitting back so her lower half was practically on his lap; leaning over so he could drive her hard against the cushions; holding one of her legs against his chest while the other remained hooked around his waist, pressing kisses to her ankle all the while.

And oh, didn’t he look sweet, panting and keening as he moved, sweat on his brow, ruddy-cheeked and earnest. Surely, he had to be close now? She’d forgotten his tells over the years, but she couldn’t imagine he was going to last much longer. As his rhythm grew more erratic, she improvised. Stuck her left index finger in her mouth to slick it up before grabbing his ass and circling his rim.

“Jesus fuck,” he swore the moment she touched him there, hips stuttering forward in a particularly hard thrust that had her seeing stars.

“Oh shit,” Bucky said with a strained laugh, so she knew she was onto a winner. Pressed her finger further in, right to the knuckle, then twisted, as unskilled with this particular talent as Steve had been at eating her out. Regardless, though, Steve fell apart only seconds later, hips slamming home thrice more before he stilled, shouted, and collapsed on top of her with a whine and a wriggle, sweaty and breathless, trembling like a racehorse after a derby run.

Peggy cuddled him close after extricating her finger, giving him a pat on the ass and hugging him tightly, kissing any spare patch of skin she could find. Steve did the same in return, laving kisses across her tits, her neck, her jaw, her nose, and finally her mouth before heaving his still-shaking body from hers and offering her a hand. She took it, grateful for the assistance, more than a little shivery herself. It was only in the act of sitting that she was forced to take her hand from Bucky's leg, searching out his face instead, finding him with lips parted, eyes hungry, and (upon further inspection) a plain-to-see tent in his trousers.

Obviously. Because what they had done was _insane_ —what he’d witnessed was madness. To the point where—only seconds removed from the act—she could hardly believe it had happened. Steve had _fucked_ her. In front of Bucky. Who was recovering from major surgery. Oh, and Bucky had been telling them what to do. And Steve hadn’t worn a condom.

Fuck. She ought to have thought it through. Ought to have used some common sense. Ought to have worried more about whether or not she’d regret it.

“You alright, Frank?” Steve asked, voice cutting through the clutter as he tugged the old, crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Oh…" Peggy clutched at the certainty of the scratchy wool, looking up to find him smiling. "I'm…thanks, yes. I'm fine."

“Good,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead before rounding on Bucky. “Now that’s a damn shame.”

“It…what?” she asked, still a bit sex-stupid, though it didn’t take her long to figure it out: Bucky hadn’t been able to get himself off, and Steve was looking at him like a starving man who’d been given access to an all-you-can-eat-buffet.

“Stevie, c’mon—” Bucky protested. “You don’t have to…”

“Ah, fuck off, Buck,” Steve said. “You’re done giving the orders.”

He was off the couch like a shot before Bucky could raise another protest. Crossed the short distance between them naked and on his knees; moved between Bucky’s spread legs and tugged down the cotton that covered his cock before swallowing him whole.

Like he’d done it a million times before.

Which, obviously, he had.

Fuck if that wasn’t a kick, watching the two of them again, the sensation it provoked not so dissimilar to the one she’d felt seeing them kiss as teenagers. It must have driven Bucky mad, having to sit there, watching her and Steve, unable to touch himself.

Which, come to think of it, she had a distinct advantage over Bucky in his current state. Namely, she could do what he couldn’t. So she did, snaking her right hand between her legs, rubbing two fingers against her clit while Steve made gloriously indelicate noises around Bucky’s prick.

Gosh, but Bucky was sweet now, _good_ now, a desperate, darling whimper in his throat as his toes curled against the rug. She locked eyes with him, waiting until she had his full attention before allowing the blanket to fall away. Spread her legs so he could see precisely what they were doing to her. How much she was enjoying the view. Bucky drew his top lip between his teeth, sling-bound fingers flexing. He was _desperate_ to touch. To hold Steve in place. To fuck up and into his mouth.

Instead, he had to sit there and take it. Had to wait. Had to endure being cherished and adored. The notion of that sat well with her—Bucky ought to be revered at every opportunity.

The two of them nearly came at the same time, though Peggy went first, in the end, her orgasm a muted bit of pleasure that only Bucky saw, as Steve had other concerns. His climax came less than a minute later, body tensing with a cry alongside a hiss of pain, which wasn’t shocking. Peggy couldn’t imagine the doctor had written ‘suck job’ on his list of approved physical activities.

Steve stayed where he was, swallowing every bit of Bucky’s release before sitting back on his heels, staring at him with what Peggy imagined was a look of hangdog adoration.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Bucky said, voice thick as he caught his breath.

Steve shrugged. “You uh…did that…you kinda, at the end? Did it hurt?”

“Pulled the wound,” Bucky said, then cleared his throat. “But no. It didn’t, ah… _hurt_.”

Steve's whole countenance changed, shoulders slumping as he leaned forward to bury his face against Bucky's thighs.

There had been something about that admission—something private—and she knew that the moment wasn’t meant for her. Deciding to leave them to it, she rose to her feet, blanket clutched around her shoulders as she took a few steps in the direction of the bathroom.

“Where you going, Maggie?” Bucky’s voice cut through her, rough-cut and wary.

“To piss,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “If you must know.”

“You better come back.”

“I will.”

Five minutes later, having cleaned herself up, she proved true to her word, returning to the living room to find that Steve had moved into a seated position on the floor, head against Bucky’s knees. When Peggy passed them, he reached out to grab her ankle, holding on tight.

“What?” she asked.

“Sleep out here?”

“The couch isn’t big enough.”

“I don’t care,” he said, turning to give Bucky’s kneecap a kiss. After that, he got to his feet and grabbed his boxers, so Peggy took the opportunity to pull her knickers on as well.

“There’s not enough room for both of us,” she said, watching as Steve sat down on the sofa and stretched out, back pressed to the cushions, making as much room for her as he could.

“Peggy,” he rumbled, patting the empty space. “Don’t be a shithead.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, even as she let him pull her down.

“Yeah, but here we are anyway.” He helped her settle, pressed back to front, hands slipping around her waist to hold her close.

“Nobody better wake up in the morning talking about how they regret this,” Bucky mumbled. “That means you, Maggie.”

Peggy rolled her eyes. “How could I possibly, when neither of you shitheads will let me?”

That got a grin from Bucky, and a kiss to the top of her head from Steve.

It didn't take long for both the boys to fall into an orgasm-induced sleep. Peggy, on the other hand, couldn't get there. Her brain, as was its wont, had started making trouble. Because no matter how many times she told herself it was good—that things might change for the better—she knew deep down that it couldn't be right. For all the fun they'd had, this would be no different than the first time they'd kissed, months ago, when she'd dared to let herself hope, only to find they were happy to pretend nothing happened.

And so, the twisted thoughts grew. Birthed new, awful notions. On and on, until all she could wonder, feeling the twitch of Steve’s fingers against her belly, was how she could have made such a foolish, misguided mistake.

 

## 1993

Peggy had expected it to be harder, this thing they were trying. Certainly, there was a bit of her that was still experiencing a degree of jealousy—a tiny voice that said Steve and Bucky would eventually turn to one another and cut her out because they liked each other first and they liked each other best. But, well, hadn't that been the point of all of this? Not the…whatever they were now, but the mending fences with Bucky before she left. Not that they knew she was going. Or that she'd done all of this because she hadn't wanted to leave Steve alone.

Well, not _all_ of it. She hadn’t planned on the kissing. The hand-holding. The way that they _worked_ together. Steve and Bucky folded her into their friendship without a second thought, and while there were certain things she didn’t understand—jokes that belonged to the two of them, some shared lore—they began developing a language of their own, too.

Beyond that, her animosity toward Bucky faded with every hour she spent in his presence, replaced with genuine affection. Different from the affection she felt for Steve, but no less powerful. Steve had been easy to fall for from the start, but with Bucky, she’d had to peel back that layer of projected cool to reveal the decent guy beneath.

After the monumental events of the apology evening, the three of them began spending a lot of time together. The movies, the park, out to lunch, even the laundromat, where Steve and Bucky had a routine, and Peggy sat on a folding table to watch them work.

Nights were best, though, curled on the couch at Steve’s flat whilst his mum was at work, kissing and touching. Stopping before things went too far, despite the thrumming undercurrent of _more, more, more_ in the air. Peggy wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that—some low, frightening curl in her gut told her to give into their groping fingers and tentative touches. To touch back. To follow what felt right.

But they hadn’t yet, some mental stopgap in place, keeping them from pushing the boundaries.

Toward the end of June, Bucky started calling her. Granted, the calls most often involved making plans, and the subject often turned to Steve, but on one occasion they’d talked for nearly an hour about nothing in particular. A movie she wanted to see. His (terrible) taste in music. The fact she’d never eaten shrimp, and he was allergic to bananas.

So when Aunt Susan knocked on her door early one Thursday morning to inform her she had a phone call from a boy, Peggy was pleased, happy to hear from either of them. Pajama-clad and yawning, she went to the hall to retrieve the cordless.

“‘Lo?”

“Hey, Maggie,” Bucky said, the nickname new and funny-sounding on his tongue. She didn’t hate it, though where he had gotten the notion, she didn’t know.

“Hi.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Bet you look cute, first thing in the morning.”

Christ, but he could make her blush. “Flirt.”

“Yup.” His grin was infectious, even though the phone. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Have you got work today?”

“Yeah.” He paused, and she reclined on her bed, closing her eyes to picture him. He’d be standing in his kitchen, maybe, leaning against a counter and pushing a hand through the hair she’d come to like so much more than when she’d first seen it. “You know Steve’s birthday’s on Sunday, right?”

Was it? She’d known it was the summer, but she hadn’t written it down. Three days wasn’t much time to find a present. “Ah…yes,” she lied.

“Cool. I was thinking we’d go down to the river, see the fireworks?”

“What fireworks?”

Bucky paused. “Uh…the _fireworks_?”

Peggy belatedly realized the date. “Right. His birthday’s the fourth.” Which was why she’d believed she would remember.

“Yup. So, is it a date?”

“I…sure,” she said.

“Cool. Sarah’s working the night shift, so we can uh…just go back to Steve’s after.”

“Brilliant. Have you gotten him a gift?”

“Yup.”

“Ah.”

“Have you?”

“Not…yet.”

“Guess you’re fucked.”

“I’ve got time!”

“I mean, like, sure,” he said. She could practically see the smug grin on his face. “But, uh, my present’s _super_ awesome, so…?”

“Is this a competition?”

“It is now.”

“Fuck off.”

Bucky laughed. “So I’ll see you Sunday?”

“See you Sunday.”

 

* * *

 

The fireworks, Peggy decided, had better be bloody impressive to justify the insanity of the crowd, as it had taken them nearly half an hour to worm their way onto a tiny patch of concrete. In retrospect, it had been stupid to wait until eight o'clock to leave for a nine-thirty show, which was partially her fault—her aunt and uncle had had a barbecue, so she'd invited Steve and Bucky over for hot dogs.

Once they were settled, things weren’t all bad. Bucky had a flask of something tucked into his pocket, which he produced with a grin and a flourish. The three of them passed it back and forth, taking quick swigs as the sky darkened, the anticipatory buzzing hitting a fever pitch just before the first blazing shower of light shot through the sky.

The show was worth the trouble. The three of them rose, wide-eyed, ooh-ing and ahh-ing along with everyone else. America—Christ knew, she had her problems and her hubris—but standing there, looking up, Peggy had to admire the sheer tenacity of this twice-bitten upstart that had crawled her way out of the muck and the mire to proclaim herself exceptional. Nobody had given her the honorific; it was one she'd laid upon her own shoulders. Holding that mantle high above her head, shouting victory over a fight she'd started. Good and bad, this girl, with a split lip and a shit-kicking attitude, content to trample just as often as she proved herself brash and bold.

Or perhaps she was projecting. Putting her sentimentality toward those Americans she liked onto the psyche of an entire country. All the same, she _did_ like her two Yanks, with their tendency toward grand pronouncements and bravado. Not in the way of the ugly, boorish tourists who gawked at Big Ben whilst scratching their arses and expecting everyone to cater to their whims. With Bucky and Steve, their American-isms showed in their big-hearted optimism. Their belief that if they kept on scrapping, things would turn out fine. Funny how that rubbed off—the more time Peggy spent with them, the more she felt her sharp edges soften.

“Happy birthday,” she said, pressing a kiss to Steve’s temple, while Bucky’s arm tightened around her waist.

Steve turned with a smile, the glint of fireworks in his eye as he kissed her, all cheap booze and tomato ketchup.

Above them, a shower of red, white, and blue shimmered over the city.

 

* * *

 

By the time the show was finished, they were sweat-soaked and punch drunk, wobbling their way out of the park while the crowd dispersed in dribs and drabs, to subway stations and bus stops. Eventually, they’d walked far enough that it was only the three of them—Bucky crooning an off-key birthday warble, Steve giggling, and Peggy groaning.

It was a miracle they reached Steve’s building unscathed, and an even greater miracle that Steve managed to unlock both sets of doors without dropping his keys, a dopey grin on his freshly sixteen-year-old face.

“Let’s…Steve, let’s—” Bucky began as they stumbled through the front door, which got Peggy laughing.

“Bucky, just _say_ it!” she implored.

“I’m trying!”

“Then—”

“Let’s…I was just gonna say,” he went on. “That I think. We should. Go to _Steve’s_ room.”

“As opposed to his mother’s?”

“Maggie. That’s…no.”

"Okay, okay," Steve whispered as if there were someone to overhear. "My room."

They tripped down the hall and into Steve's small room, where he shut the door, leaning his forehead against it. Peggy and Bucky stood, blinking, and after a moment, Bucky reached into his back pocket to produce a wilted white envelope.

“Steve? Hey, Stevie!”

Steve lifted his head and turned around, blinking in surprise. “What’s that?”

“Happy birthday,” Bucky said, thrusting the envelope forward.

“Aw, Buck, you didn’t have to,” Steve said, taking it from him and opening the flap. When he pulled out the piece of paper inside, however, all color drained from his face. “How the fuck?”

“It’s uh…tickets don’t go on sale for a little while yet, so…” Bucky shrugged.

Peggy stepped closer, squinting down at the paper, which read: _IOU Three (3) Nirvana tix._

“Bucky!” she exclaimed.

“They’re playing here in November,” he said. “So, you know. I’ll camp out for tickets, or whatever. Don’t worry about it.”

Steve threw himself at Bucky in a hug so fierce it might have been embarrassing if it were between anyone else. Bucky caught him, a goofy grin on his face as he hugged him tight before giving Peggy a wink.

Peggy didn’t return it. Because she was fixated on the gift.

On several things about the gift.

Number one? Bucky had been right: she couldn’t compete, so she was glad she hadn’t tried.

Number two? He’d promised Steve _three_ tickets. Meaning that he thought she’d still be there in November.

Which she wouldn’t.

Christ, she had to tell them.

Not now, though. Wouldn’t do to spoil Steve’s birthday.

Steve pulled back from the hug, eyes red-rimmed and teary, even as Peggy caught the stubborn set to his jaw that meant he was going to martyr himself for no good reason.

“Ah, ah, ah!” she said, pointing. “Steve’s about to do the thing where he says it’s too expensive!”

“Aw, shit,” Bucky said, feigning mock-horror. “Steve, you weren’t gonna do that, were you?”

“Uh— “

“Fuck off with that,” he scoffed. “It’s my fucking gift.”

“Yeah, but _Bucky_!”

“What, you think I want to go listen to that guy whine about how hard life is for my _health_?”

“Bucky…”

"Anyway, I knew Peggy was going to get you something outstanding, so I had to get you something better."

Peggy narrowed her eyes. Steve, confused, blinked at her. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I did,” she said.

“What _did_ you get him, Maggie?” Bucky asked, an insufferable little smile on his face.

Gathering herself, she smiled back, ever-so-sweetly. “I’m so glad you asked. I got Steve a hand job.”

Bucky’s smirk faltered. Steve’s blue eyes went wide. Ha! Peggy remained utterly impassive, as though she offered that sort of thing every day.

“You—“ Steve stuttered out a laugh. “Uh. You’re kidding, right?”

“Why don’t you lie down and we’ll find out?”

“Hang the fuck on,” Bucky protested.

“What?” she said. “I’m not offering _you_ one.”

Bucky spluttered, though Steve was the one turning red.

“Peggy,” he said solemnly. “You don’t…you don’t _have_ to do that.”

“That’s very noble of you, Steve,” she replied. “But I’d actually rather like to try.” The confidence wasn’t false, precisely, but she knew she sounded braver than she felt. Because while there had been a fair few cloth-covered cocks rubbed against her leg—and she’d rubbed back more than once—touching an _actual_ prick was uncharted territory. But it was Steve’s birthday, so she’d be god damned if she was going to let Bucky have the only victory of the evening.

“Are you _sure_?” Steve repeated.

“If you ask me again, I’m rescinding the offer.”

Steve sucked in a breath and looked to Bucky, seeking his permission. Bucky, meanwhile, seemed absolutely gobsmacked, offering Steve no help.

Emboldened by the fact that she had the upper hand, literally and metaphorically, Peggy stepped nearer to Steve. Pressed her lips against his, then brought her hand to the button on his jeans. “Lie. Down.”

“I—“ Steve swallowed. “Can Bucky uh…can we all fit?”

“Won’t know unless we try.”

They did fit, though it was a tight squeeze. Steve's twin bed wasn't big enough for two, much less three, so it took some maneuvering for them all to have a degree of comfort. Bucky ended up with his back pressed to the wall, Peggy with her bottom hanging half-off the edge, with Steve stretched out in the middle, long fingers fussing with the hem of his shirt. The look on his face was one of a man signing up for a bit of light torture rather than an assisted wank-off. Peggy tried not to be put out by that.

“Right,” she said, because now that it came down to it, she wasn’t sure where to begin. Hooking her chin on Steve’s shoulder, she looked past him and caught Bucky’s eye. “I’ll just—start, then.” Her hand moved to Steve’s fly, and he shifted, sucking in a breath.

“Just…” he began, voice tremulous. “I uh…can you kiss me a little, too?”

Peggy had never been so grateful for the familiarity of a kiss. He turned his head to catch her, right arm tucked beneath her shoulder, bent at the elbow so he could stroke her hair. The intimacy of the gesture helped her relax, even as her fingers fumbled with the button of his fly, finally working it open and sliding down the zip.

Steve’s breath hitched, tongue touching her bottom lip. When Peggy lay her hand against the flat of his belly, she felt him exhale.

“Alright?” she murmured.

“Y-yeah.”

They kissed again, her eyes falling shut while her hand moved through the sparse, short hairs above the waistband of his boxers. She didn’t linger, sliding lower and lower. Beneath the elastic. Down, and down, and—oh! She gasped against Steve’s mouth at the first brush of the unfamiliar against the side of her palm.

Steve moaned, and the— _it_ —twitched. Or, jumped…jumped was a better word. As if it were alive—some sentient thing responding to her touch, which, alright, it _was_ alive, in a sense, being that Steve was alive, and it belonged to Steve. But it didn’t have a mind of its own. It was a cock. Steve’s cock. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by it.

Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around him in a loose fist, hardly daring to touch, all advice she'd ever gleaned from salacious sex tips in magazines flying straight out of her head. Steve groaned all the same, while a soft, "shit, Steve" came from Bucky. Peggy opened her eyes, casting them in his direction, only to find him staring reverently at the place where her hand disappeared beneath Steve's shorts, as if she were performing some holy sacrament.

Christ, she hadn’t even _done_ anything yet.

Which was mostly because she wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to do. All those articles said that men “got hard,” which her prior experience with clothed erections had confirmed. But Steve didn’t feel all that…hard. Also, he wasn’t that big? Except, it was getting _bigger_. Sort of. That was interesting—every time she touched her tongue against his, it—oh…oh, _hello_ there.

She tightened her grip slightly. Steve bucked his hips with a whimpered “hungh- _uhhhh_!”

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, horrified as she loosened her fist.

"No! Oh my God—" Steve's eyes were open now, wide and enamored. "Oh, my _God_.”

“What’s it feel like?” Bucky asked, voice strangled.

“Uhhh…” Steve licked his lips. “It’s…I mean. Better than doing it myself?”

“I should hope so,” Peggy muttered, moving her hand up and down, just to see what would happen. Turned out, plenty. Steve groaned again, eyes closing and hips lifting. And yes, alright, she could see why they called it _hard_ now. Not rigid, precisely, but solid. Unyielding. Curious, she tightened her grip further, but that made him grunt unhappily and kick his left foot against the mattress.

“Easy…shit…” he hissed. “That’s too…”

“Sorry,” she said, letting him go, cheeks burning.

“Yeah, but…” he frowned. “Don’t stop. Just…not that hard? Sorry, I don’t know how to say—”

“Can I help?” Bucky broke in. They both turned to look at him, Steve in shock and Peggy pouting.

"It's my present," she grumbled, because while she knew his offer had been made with good intentions, she'd hardly had a minute to figure it out herself.

“I know, I’m just…” he shrugged, biting his lip. “I got a little experience, is all. I mean, just my own, but…you know. I can help.”

A fair point. Peggy glanced at Steve, who was looking between them, wide-eyed, as if it was Christmas as well as his birthday.

“Please?” he whispered.

“You’re the birthday boy,” she said, making up her mind before kissing him again.

It wasn’t long after when she felt the first brush of Bucky’s hand as it moved down and covered hers, fingers slipping into the spaces between her own, helping her adjust her grip. Whatever pressure he exerted must have been the correct amount, as Steve made another strangled, happy noise, body convulsing.

Peggy kept kissing Steve as Bucky began to move their hands, sliding back and forth along the skin of Steve’s prick. Which was, quite honestly, the strangest sensation she had ever experienced. Because the bloody thing _moved_ —the surface of it, anyway—sliding as if it was entirely separate from the muscle underneath. Like there was a layer of jelly between Steve's flesh and the rest of him, and oh, it was the _weirdest_ thing. Not in a bad way, but in the way of all things when imagination and expectation fail to match reality.

Steve’s left hand, heretofore on Bucky’s side of the bed, moved to her right breast, kneading over her shirt like an overzealous baker. It hurt, a little, but she wasn’t going to stop him—not when Bucky took the opportunity to kiss her neck, biting the skin above her collarbone as he picked up the pace of their joined hands.

She liked it when he bit her. Liked that it hurt, because this hurt was different—better—than the discomfort of Steve squeezing her tit. It was the sort of pain that felt good and bad all at once, her entire body throbbing and hot as a whimper escaped her. Fuck, she was boiling, the back of her neck prickling with sweat as she pressed her legs together, suddenly sensitive. Her left hand was free, so she moved it to the space between her thighs, rocking against her fingers. They wouldn't notice, and even if they did, they wouldn't think she was strange for wanting to relieve the mounting pressure. Because this was too much and too good, and she thought maybe she'd scream and rip all her skin from her body if Bucky ever stopped kissing her neck.

Except, also: what the fuck?

Her thumb—the one in Steve’s shorts—had brushed against damp near the head of his cock during an upstroke. What _was_ that? She didn’t think he’d ejaculated, but he was making ridiculous grunting noises, and then out of nowhere he went rigid, gasping, “I’m gonna—” which was when Bucky said, “yeah, good” and started moving their hands faster and faster until the little bit of damp became a _lot_ of damp. A raindrop giving way to a monsoon, as it were, and Peggy felt every twitch and shiver as Steve’s prick began to soften.

Christ, had he come? Yes, he had. That had been fast. Was it normal for it to be fast?

Unsure, and slightly mortified, she kept moving her hand until Bucky tugged her away, a sheepish grin on his face. “We gotta stop for a second.”

“Yeah you _do_ ,” Steve managed, voice a whine as he yanked down his t-shirt, which had ridden up high on his stomach thanks to his squirming.

Peggy let the hand between her legs fall to the mattress, while also bringing the spunk-covered one to her face, examining and marveling at what she—they—had accomplished. Instinctively, she licked her palm, just to see what it tasted like because she'd never understood the appeal of blow jobs, but maybe there was some magic deliciousness she was missing.

Yeuch. Nope. Nothing magic there.

Bucky gave a sharp gasp, though, and she looked up. “What?” she snapped, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing. Just…that’s like, kinda sexy?”

“It doesn’t even taste like anything,” she protested.

“Yeah, but…” he shook his head. “Hang on. Lemme get you a Kleenex.”

There was a conveniently placed box on the windowsill, which Peggy thought was a remarkable coincidence until she realized why Steve might have them close at hand. Taking one, she wiped the cooling mess from her fingers, watching as Bucky did the same. Steve, meanwhile, sat up shakily, pushing a hand through his hair.

Peggy touched his lower back, which was slick with perspiration. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just…I gotta pee,” he mumbled, practically crawling over her to get to the door.

That left her alone with Bucky, who didn't seem half so concerned with Steve's going as she was.

“Is…did we do something wrong?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said. “He’s fine. Good gift, by the way.”

“Err, thanks.”

“Not better than Nirvana tickets, but—” he grinned. “Pretty solid.”

Peggy smiled, reaching over to toss her tissue into the nearby bin. When she looked back, her eyes fell to Bucky’s waist, and she found he had an erection as well. Or, at least, she was relatively sure. “I…ah,” she cleared her throat, averting her gaze. “Thank you. For helping.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Would you mind uh…can we make out, please?”

Peggy’s cheeks went hot at the request, and she nodded, not bothering to hide her smile when Bucky pulled her close, big hand warm on her cheek, lips soft against her own. He was a better kisser than Steve, and it didn’t feel like a betrayal to think so. Steve would have agreed, after all—he was learning; playing catch-up to Bucky’s years of experience and confidence.

Bucky rolled them over after a minute, pushing himself up on his elbows so she wouldn’t have to bear all of his weight.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, Maggie,” he mumbled, covering her jaw with a line of barely-there kisses.

Another throb of desire pulsed through her, settling between her thighs as she raked her fingers through his tangled hair. Every inch of her was sensitive to his touch, and when his kisses moved to her neck, and he sucked on the spot he'd bitten before, she thought, " _oh, I want him_ ” with such startling clarity as she’d never known.

Instinct said she ought to move, so she moved. Spread her thighs to accommodate him. Wrapped her legs around his waist to trap him, skirt riding high. Fuck, she could _feel_ him now—there was no mistaking that hardness for anything else—his clothed prick sliding against her knickers as she rocked herself with him.

He looked up, mortification writ large on his pretty face, an apology already visible on his lips.

Peggy didn't want an apology. "Do it again," she whispered, before pulling him down for a rough kiss. Sucked his bottom lip between her teeth, bit down hard as she lifted her hips from the bed to meet his rolling thrusts. Wanting more, and more, and more of that lovely, firm friction.

So caught up were they in the sensations that they failed to notice Steve’s return. “Holy fuck,” he whispered upon finding them in clothed not-quite coitus. Peggy looked over and held out her hand. Because she wanted Steve, too. Drew him in so he could drop to his knees by the bed, and once he was there, she kissed him with every bit of her newfound want. Then, when she’d taken her fill, Bucky kissed him, too, hips moving all the while, length pressed against her cunt. Driving her to something _new_. Some mounting pressure, similar to those times she’d taken care of herself. It had never happened with another person, yet there it was, all of a sudden, the shocking quake of her orgasm overcoming her with swiftness. Legs tightening their hold on Bucky as she came, shouting, fingernails digging into the tense, shaking muscles of his arms.

Bucky groaned against Steve's lips, and she continued to chase the waves of her bliss until she was trembling and too sensitive. Still, though, Bucky kept going. Kept seeking his end, now with frantic intensity. No rhythm, no grace, only some animal instinct driving him until he, too, fell apart with a moaned, "fuckfuck _fuck._ ”

Peggy held him as he collapsed atop her. Ran a hand through his sweaty locks while Steve brought her other to his lips, kissing her knuckles with awe.

They stayed in their debauched tableau for quite some time. Touching and kissing and recovering, each knowing that they’d stepped across a threshold. Entered the wardrobe to come out the other side in a brand-new world of possibilities.

“My ma,” Steve mumbled eventually, breaking the silence. “We ought to uh…go out, put on a movie.”

“Right,” Bucky agreed, pulling away from Peggy, both of them rumpled and spent, Bucky’s dark jeans hiding a wet patch. He smiled at her. Leaned down to kiss her bare knee before rubbing a hand over the smooth skin of her calf. “You good, Maggie?”

“I’m…mmmhmm,” she nodded, sitting slowly, blood rushing to her head. “That was…”

“Yup,” Steve agreed, offering her a hand.

The three of them were under a blanket on the couch by the time Sarah got home, Peggy and Steve holding hands on top, while Bucky gripped Steve’s underneath. They’d put Letterman on, just to have something to do, though they’d spent more time making plans and trading kisses than paying attention to the top ten.

Sarah said hello, then retreated to her room after dropping a hint that perhaps it was time for Steve’s friends to head home. Bucky and Peggy conceded her point reluctantly, giving Steve kisses at the door before descending the stairs together.

Bucky walked her home, and when they reached the stoop of her building, she took one step up, putting them at eye-level. He grinned, slipping his arms around her waist, while she dropped hers to his shoulders, then gave him a kiss in the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” he asked, calloused thumbs rubbing small circles against the bare skin of her lower back.

“Getting three tickets.”

 


	12. escape is never the safest path

**Escape is never the safest path** **  
****Oh, a dissident is here** **  
** _-Pearl Jam_

 

## 2005

Steve was running out of things to sketch, sitting there in that waiting room, spine molding to a cracked vinyl chair, an ever-present yawn threatening to escape him. Bucky had been in his thirty-minute appointment for nearly forty-five now, during which time Steve had watched a dozen people come and go. Checking in and sitting down as he sketched the lines of their stories on the page. An older woman, leaning on a crutch, mouth full of false teeth when she smiled. A sullen teenager with his knee in a brace, scowling at his mother when she tried to push his hair from his eyes. A young mother with a baby in a stroller, making faces and giggling while they waited their turn. They’d all come and gone, disappearing to the mysterious area Steve had only caught glimpses of beyond the heavy wooden door.

Which was, perhaps, melodramatic. It was physical therapy, not a torture chamber, and Bucky—newly sling-free, standing at the starting line of recovery—was meeting his therapist for the first time. Steve had offered to go with him, but Bucky had turned down the offer, marking the only time since Sokovia that he’d done something medical on his own.

Which was good, wasn’t it? He could manage his own care. He didn’t need Steve standing at his side with a checklist and a bunch of questions he worried Bucky would forget to ask.

He hated being left behind anyway.

The heavy door swung open, and he looked up, fully expecting to find another stranger. This time, though, it was Bucky who emerged, right arm hanging loose at his side. Steve's eyes flitted over the length of it as if expecting a miracle to have happened in three-quarters of an hour. Stupid—it would be months before Bucky had full mobility back, and there'd be plenty of complaining along the way. (Still, he was able to wipe his own ass these days, so that was a start.)

When Steve’s eyes reached his face, he was pleased to see Bucky smiling, acknowledging him with a toss of his head as he stepped forward.

Steve stood and flipped his sketchpad shut, grinning back. “Hey, Buck.”

“Hey.”

As he moved nearer, Steve could see the sweat on his brow; the pink tinge of exertion on his cheeks. “Y’alright?”

“Yup. Let’s go?”

They headed for the elevator bank, riding down the five stories to street level. “Should we splurge on a cab?” Steve offered, in another bit of mollycoddling.

Bucky gave him a strange look before plunging into the steady stream of early rush-hour commuters heading for the nearest subway station. Steve was left with no choice but to play catch up, matching Bucky stride for stride as they descended and crammed themselves in with the approximately six billion other people in the hot, smelly car. The weather was getting colder, but the subway took a couple weeks to catch up—it would be a while yet before it stopped being quite so miserable.

There weren't seats, so Steve grabbed hold of a center pole while Bucky hooked his claw into Steve's waistband. It wasn't much in the way of security if they were involved in a sudden stop, but it was enough for a regular ride, allowing them the chance to press close together while other people crowded around, making conversation in low murmurs, carving a space for themselves amidst the chaos.

“How was it?” Steve asked.

“S’good,” Bucky said, sucking the inside of his cheeks.

“What uh, what’d they do?”

“Buncha tests. Measurements and shit—establishing a baseline, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“And I got some homework.”

“Homework?”

“Like…exercises?”

“That’s good, right?”

Bucky shrugged, glaring at some dumbass in a dark grey suit who had jostled him. "I guess. Hurts like a bitch to do 'em, though."

Steve frowned. “Buck, it’s not supposed to—”

“Yes, _ma_.”

“I mean it!”

“It’s not—” he blew out a breath. “It’s not like _hurt_ hurt, pal. It’s more like…you know when you work out a muscle you haven’t used in a while?”

Steve did know—the way the muscle burned and ached for a day or two, but over time got used to being worked, with the result well worth the effort. So he nodded, pressing a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, practically daring some asshole to have a problem with it. “Yeah. That’s a good sorta hurt, huh?”

“Mmm,” Bucky sighed. “But they want me to go _three_ times a week.”

Steve raised a brow. Getting Bucky out of _bed_ three times a week was tough—this was Sisyphean. “I’ll adjust my schedule.”

Bucky shook his head. “Nah—you don’t need to come with me.”

“But…”

“Jesus, Steve, you don’t go to regular therapy with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Except for how you skip regular therapy half the time.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “So maybe I skip a PT session or two. I’ll survive.”

Steve harrumphed, reaching out a hand to hold Bucky’s waist as the train pulled into the next station, more and more people piling on, the journey cloying and claustrophobic, making him glad he didn’t often have to commute during rush hour. Not like Peggy. Peggy was probably on crowded trains like this every day. Because she had a normal job. A job she was leaving right about now, most likely. Heading home to her place in the Village to…do whatever it was she did when she was at home.

Steve had never seen her place. Hadn’t gotten a glimpse of what her life was like at all, because Peggy was Peggy, which meant she was infuriatingly good at compartmentalizing. Keeping those parts of herself she didn’t want to share a closely guarded secret. Unlike him—he was incapable of keeping anything from her, or from Bucky. His heart was a gaping wound in his chest; his whole life a series of hangdog expressions and sheepish smiles.

Not that it had mattered, in the end. Steve and Bucky had shown her how much they wanted her, and she had taken a giant step back. As in, they’d hardly seen her since they slept together. Which Steve didn’t regret! Or, well, he hadn’t at first, but he’d started to lately. Because things had cooled off rapidly, with that night being the last one Peggy spent at their place. And now that Bucky was doing better? She was a ghost.

Granted, Steve was still getting work from Rebirth, but that came from Kerry, with Peggy only marginally involved, if involved at all. He was grateful for the opportunity—loved having the extra cash—but that didn’t make him less angry about the entire affair. Angry with Peggy, yes, because she’d indicated she was into it and had absolutely been an enthusiastic participant, but also angry at himself for missing any signs that she wasn’t one hundred percent happy and confident in her understanding of their intentions. But, Jesus, she’d kissed him like she knew. Touched him like she knew. Held onto him and spent the night in his arms like she knew.

So it bothered him that maybe she hadn’t known. Made him worry he’d been pressing his advantage. That maybe she’d had regrets in the moment but hadn’t voiced them. Which was stupid because it was _Peggy_. He’d never known her to be timid. So why wouldn’t she just _talk_ to them rather than falling off the face of the earth? That stung more than anything—she’d already left them once, and this time she hadn’t even had a reason for going.

These days, his calls went straight to voicemail, and while part of him wanted to track her down and figure it out, a bigger part of him was too focused on Bucky’s recovery to deal with it. So it was what it was, and though the situation bothered him greatly, he was dealing. Managing. Suppressing his sorrow so he could get through the day.

The train pulled into the station two stops from their own, and Bucky smiled. “Let’s walk from here?”

The fresh air of an early fall day sounded better than more time underground; plus, it was good for Bucky to stay active. They headed into the late-afternoon sun, September cozying up to October as the leaves on the scant few trees populating the sidewalk started showing their colors.

They didn’t say much, and by the time they were in their neighborhood, Steve’s stomach was rumbling, nose turning in the direction of the good smells coming from the closest pizzeria. “You wanna stop and get a couple slices?”

“Nah,” Bucky said. “We got leftovers in the freezer.”

“Buzzkill Barnes. When’d you get so boring?”

“I’m sorry, when’s your fourth birthday again, you baby?”

Steve grinned, giving up his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dreams for dinner as they went into their building. Where there was, indeed, food to be had.

Specifically, food Peggy had bought for them during Bucky’s recuperation, filling the freezer with a bevy of meals, from lasagna to chicken pot pie. The food wasn’t the only thing she’d left, her lingering presence in the apartment enough to drive him crazy. A toothbrush in their bathroom, a tube of nearly-done lipstick in the living room, a towel that still smelled like her at the foot of their bed (not that he’d been sniffing, he’d just caught a _whiff_ while gathering things for the laundromat and, okay, maybe he hadn’t actually washed it yet, but whatever). Shit, even the new, fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch was hers, added to the ever-growing pile of soft, cozy comfort from which Bucky made his nests.

It was hard to let her go when she was everywhere, and Steve found himself resentful as he slammed a frozen lasagna into the oven. Bucky, meanwhile, stuck his head out the open kitchen window to smoke (no more brownies, thank fuck—Steve was a terrible baker). The pot really was great for pain management, as it kept Bucky mellow, and he wasn't dependent on it the way he might have been on a prescription. Steve was looking into groups he could join in supporting legalization, and he'd written a couple angry letters about mandatory minimums already.

Once the food was in the oven, he got plates out, then gave Bucky a swat on the ass, just because it was a good ass, ripe for the smacking, presenting itself as a willing target. Bucky grunted, coughing out a cloud of smoke.

“Quit it, asshole,” he grinned, pulling his head inside.

“What?” Steve laughed. “How’m I supposed to concentrate when you stick that thing in my face?”

“Oh yeah, cause it’s so enticing.”

“It is!”

Bucky laughed. “You’re such a punk.”

Steve lifted his hands in a whaddaya-gonna-do gesture, tangling his fingers in the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and pouting. “Wanna make out?”

“Mmm, sources say yes, but I gotta finish this first.”

“Pothead.”

“Yup. Meet you in the living room?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Steve let him go. Bucky joined him on the sofa about five minutes later, the two of them trading kisses until the oven beeped. Then it was back to the kitchen, Bucky guffawing at the sight of Steve burning himself while taking the steaming lasagna out.

“Dumbshit,” he marveled, watching Steve suck on the side of his wrist, which had touched the rack. “Ovens are hot.”

“Shut up, Bucky.”

“That’s _science_.”

“Shut _up_ , Bucky!”

“You think we need to visit the burn unit?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Sit your ass down.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinned, sitting while Steve served the lasagna, bravely persevering through his grievous injury.

Bucky made it through two and a half helpings by the time they were done, which lightened Steve’s mood considerably. Sure, he was high, but his appetite was getting healthier every day—not just returning to pre-surgery levels, but exceeding them. Steve never would have admitted it to Bucky, but the way he ate like a disinterested bird before had been worrying, especially given how _skinny_ he’d gotten for a while. Like it might’ve easier to waste away than make an effort.

“I’m gonna clean up,” he said, brushing a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. “Go see what’s on TV?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, smiling and retreating to the living room.

Steve did the dishes, putting away what scant leftovers they had, and wiping down the counters with a dry towel to leave everything spotless. After that, he headed for the living room where, well…Bucky wasn’t.

“Buck?” he called, unsure.

“Back here!” Bucky’s voice floated out from the bedroom, so Steve headed that way, only to stop short in the doorway, mouth falling open. Because Bucky was lying on a towel on the bed without a single stitch of clothing on his body, every perfect scar and freckle visible on his frame, dick half-hard against his thigh. Undressing had clearly taken serious effort, his chest rising and falling with exertion, a grin on his face, prosthetic on its stand by the bed.

“Oh, wow,” Steve managed.

“Hi,” Bucky grinned. “You wanna fuck? Pretty sure I’m good for it.”

“I mean…” Steve laughed. “Yeah, pal. Not like I got much of a choice here…”

“Would that I could jerk myself off.”

“Nah,” he grinned, and he was across the room in two strides, straddling Bucky’s hips, leaning down to kiss him, joyful from the sheer _relief_ of this normalcy. They hadn’t fucked since before the surgery, and even then, it had been rare, thanks to Bucky’s shoulder. So the luxury of rolling him over to rim him? Turning him on his left side so he could sink into his clutching, familiar warmth? Fucking him slow while he keened and moaned so sweetly? Yeah, Steve had missed that. Wanted that. _Needed_ that. Took his time and took Bucky to pieces, one hand gliding along his prick while the other gripped his thigh, lips kissing whatever patch of neck and shoulder was closest, paying particular attention to the scarring.

“You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he murmured when he was near to completion, prone to sentimentality in his pleasure

“Missed you,” Bucky whispered, back arching and cock pulsing in a way that told Steve he was close, too. “Please…”

"I know, Buck," he said, picking up his pace. "Come on, baby, let me see you …that's…oh, there you go, _there_ you go…” Babbling usually did the trick, and Bucky came quickly, striping his stomach with his spunk. Steve followed not long after, shuddering apart, nails digging into Bucky’s skin as he held out through those final thrusts.

"Stay…" Bucky gasped instantly. "Don't …just stay a second?"

Steve was more than willing to indulge this particular quirk, positioning himself so his cock stayed where it was, even as it softened. “Not going anywhere, Buck. Can you move with me, though? Let me get comfortable?”

“Mmmhmm,” Bucky agreed, and though it took some doing, they got there in the end.

“Not hurting you, right?” Steve asked once they were settled, nuzzling against his neck, mindful of his shoulder.

“No. S’good,” he sighed, turning his palm over so he could twine their fingers together.

They lay like that for a while, connected and sated, until Bucky broke the silence with a soft, “you miss her, huh?”

Steve stiffened. “What? No.”

“Liar.”

Frowning, he gave Bucky’s neck a nip. “What does it matter if I do?”

“I just…” Bucky sighed. “I miss her, too.”

Steve sat up as much as he could, studying the stubbled line of Bucky’s jaw. The cleft of his chin. The small white scar, just below his mouth, where no hair grew. “I don’t know why I’m so fuckin’ surprised.”

“No?”

“This is what she _does_. She leaves.”

Bucky hummed, shifting his hips, so Steve's cock slipped, just a little. "I guess so."

“What do you mean you _guess_ so? It’s literally what she’s doing.”

"Maybe," he mused like he was so wise.

“You got another theory, Sherlock Holmes?”

“A couple actually, yeah.”

Steve blew out a breath, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Enlighten me, then.”

“Just…I mean, hypothetically, what if the situation were reversed? What if it had been me and Peggy, and you were the uh…third party.”

Steve thought about that. “If you guys were a thing, but we all _used_ to be a thing, and then she fucked me, I guess I’d feel—”

“Weird.”

“No!”

“Bullshit. You’d feel weird.”

“Bucky.”

“What?” He grinned the grin of the high and philosophical. “You would. Anyway, how could we know how she feels? It’s not like we ever asked her.”

“ _You’re_ the one who was always like…oh, no shitheads, guys, no shitheads.”

“Sure. Which was fine when we were kids. But now…I dunno.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a statute of limitations on the shithead rule.”

“Yeah, well, maybe there is. And maybe we’re…maybe we shoulda asked.”

Steve frowned. “If she wanted to stay, she could have said so.”

"Oh c'mon. I know it's Peggy but…how intimidating would it be to ask that question?"

Steve frowned. “Pretty intimidating, I guess.”

“More than that, what would we have said if she did?”

The question brought him up short, and he blinked. “Um. Yes?”

“But what does yes look like? Does it mean dating us? Living with us? Sex and nothing else? We never talked about that.”

Steve frowned. “I…we would have figured it out. You wanted to, right?”

“See, and that right there? That’s the problem. How could we offer—how could she _ask_ —when we haven’t even asked ourselves about the particulars?”

“I mean, we talked about it…we _insinuated_.”

“We’re real good at that.”

“What does it even matter what we did or didn’t do? She left us then, she left us now. It’s over.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, though. What would it have looked like?”

“I…” Steve hesitated. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Bucky laughed, turning his head to catch a kiss. “Yeah, I’m pretty fuckin’ solid on that one, pal.”

“So, I just mean…if we _did_ want to say yes.”

“Which we would have.”

Steve bit his lip. “Yeah.”

“We’d have had to talk about it. Amend the no shitheads rule. Make some other ones while we were at it.”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Maybe not.”

“But maybe it would have.”

“Maybe so.” Steve frowned. “So yeah, all things being equal, I would have been up for trying.”

Bucky nodded, squeezing his hand. “Me, too.”

“Not that it matters.” If there had been a window of opportunity, it was shut. Didn’t matter who’d done the closing.

“You could reach out to her.”

“I’ve tried,” he muttered. “The phone works both ways.”

“Stubborn. But sure.”

"Plus, I'm still kinda pissed at her? Even if we were shitheads, too."

“Understandable,” Bucky agreed.

Steve grunted, turning his face against his neck. “Whatever.”

“It was nice having her here, though.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“And uh, also? You can get your dick outta my ass.”

Steve laughed, the subject change a welcome whiplash. “Oh, sure.”

“Also, I’m covered in jizz.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“It’s absolutely your fault, Steven.”

"I forgot you were such a delicate angel, Buck," he teased. "c'mon, let's hop in the shower."

 

## 1993

It was nearly the end of July when Bucky got a bug up his ass about going to the beach. He first brought it up one hot, sticky afternoon that found the three of them laying on the floor in front of the tiny window air-conditioning unit in Steve’s apartment. They’d stripped down as much as they could—Peggy in her bra and a skirt, Steve and Bucky in boxers—mindful that they’d have to scramble for clothing should Sarah get off work early.

“This is bullshit,” Bucky complained, scratching the hand that wasn’t currently holding Peggy’s across his bare stomach.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, doing the same. “Fuck summer.”

“It’s not _civilized_ ,” Peggy agreed, squeezing both their hands and pointing her feet in the direction of the living room, being as they were lying with heads near the window.

“We oughta go to the beach,” Bucky proclaimed. “Cool off.”

Steve lifted his head a couple inches off the parquet floor to look at his dumbass best friend. “Gah-ross.”

“I’m _serious_.”

“So’s every other schmuck in this city.”

“What’s wrong with the beach?” Peggy asked, a bead of sweat running down her temple. He wanted to lick it off. And, hey, that was a weird thought. Peggy made him think _such_ weird thoughts.

“Steve thinks public beaches are disgusting,” Bucky informed her.

“They are!”

“They’re not that bad!”

“Garbage water-soaked shitholes. Used diapers in the sand, needles—”

“Jesus, you’re an old grump.”

“I’m a _realist_.”

“I wanna go,” Bucky said, with a set to his jaw, reminding Steve that he could be stubborn, too. “During the week—it’ll be less crowded.”

“Yes, let’s,” Peggy said, which was how Steve knew he’d lost. It wasn’t like he _hated_ the beach. In theory, he liked it okay. Liked the idea of ice cream and cool water and boardwalks and sandcastles. But the reality of beaches meant crowds, and screaming kids, and the aforementioned shitty diapers. Plus, he'd never been much of a swimmer, and he didn't even have swim trunks that fit, because the pair Sarah'd bought him when he was eleven and went to the Jersey shore with Bucky's family wasn't gonna fit anymore.

“Steve?” Bucky prompted.

“I don’t have trunks,” he muttered, laying down one last protest against the inevitable.

“You can borrow my old ones.”

“I…” he trailed off.

“So, that’s a yes?” Peggy asked. It wasn’t fair when the two of them ganged up on him. Only, okay, the idea of seeing Peggy and Bucky in _their_ swimsuits appealed, so like, yeah. Whatever.

“Whatever.”

“Awesome,” Bucky grinned. “I’ll buy you an ice cream, you grumpy fuck.”

“Stop _calling_ me that.”

“Make me.”

Steve did. Peggy rolled her eyes and went to find popsicles.

Turned out, those were better than sweat for licking off skin.

 

* * *

 

Two days later found them stepping off the train at Brighton Beach, laden down with towels, sunscreen, and a cooler stuffed full of food Bucky’s ma had insisted on packing, lest they pay “obscene” prices for “boardwalk trash.” Steve wasn’t even sure if Brighton Beach _had_ a boardwalk, but his original suggestion of Coney Island had been shot down by Bucky with a scoffed, “thought you didn’t want too many _people_ , Stevie.”

So, Brighton it was, and loathe as Steve was to admit it, Bucky had been right: there were plenty of people, but not so many as there would have been at Coney. Sure, they still had to step over other parties as they walked about a million miles to find a stretch of sand for themselves, but considering the spot they claimed, Steve didn’t mind.

“This is, like, _perfect_ ," Bucky declared, weighing down the edge of the blanket with a handful of sand, then stripping off his shirt

Steve watched him, an ache in his chest igniting at the sight—half-envious, half in-love—because Bucky was a Greek god, stuck on a plinth. A wet dream of Steve’s fevered imaginings. Shit, he wanted to kiss him. Touch him all over. But they were in public, so he settled for staring at him out of the corner of his eye while pretending to futz with his sketchpad.

Peggy didn’t help the ache when she stripped out of her clothes, revealing a navy blue two-piece that was probably Sharon’s, judging by the size—the top half too small, and the bottom cupping her ass in a way that got Steve’s prick perking in his hand-me-down shorts. If Bucky was a god, then she was a goddess—Aphrodite and Diana’s daughter, all curves and soft places contrasting where Bucky was hard and lean. _Fuck_. How could Steve compete? How could they look at him and see anything worth wanting?

“Nice suit,” Bucky teased. “Kinda small.”

“Fuck off,” Peggy grinned, flipping him the bird and pushing her sunglasses up her nose.

"You first," he replied. That made her laugh as she crouched to rummage in her big, canvas bag for sunscreen, which she passed to Bucky before turning her back. Steve figured maybe he'd stroke out and die right there, watching while Bucky slathered the slick stuff on her shoulders before she did the same for him.

“Hey,” Bucky said when they were done, nudging Steve with his foot. “You, too.”

“Nah,” he said, as he hadn’t taken off any clothes. “You guys go ahead.”

Peggy tossed her sunglasses onto the blanket, then ran her index fingers along the elastic of her bottoms like that was a normal thing and _not_ something liable to make him cream his jeans (trunks?) right then and there. “Oh, come on,” she protested. “It’ll be fun.”

“Maybe later,” he demurred.

“He can’t swim,” Bucky said, matter-of-factly.

“Bucky!”

“What? You can’t.”

“Yes, I can!”

“Then prove it.”

Steve’s nostrils flared. He stood, whipping his shirt over his head and marching toward the water, forgoing sunscreen and common sense. Because if Bucky thought he could _goad_ Steve into swimming, well…that was exactly what he could do.

Peggy and Bucky joined him, and though neither of them made a big deal out of it, they each took a side to help him keep his head above water, making their way out past the breakers to where the waves rose and fell in gentler swells. Once there, Bucky was the only one who could reliably touch the bottom, so Steve and Peggy clung to him, trading kisses and turning tricks in the water until they had exhausted themselves. After that, they returned to the sand, opening the cooler to pick out sandwiches and potato chips, sharing the meal between themselves.

“Food tastes better at the beach,” Bucky declared after cramming nearly half a sandwich into his mouth.

The three of them ate their fill, then stretched out on the blanket, falling into a sun-soaked sleep. Steve, having neglected sunscreen in his fit of pique, woke first, with pinked-up skin and a prickling sensation which spoke to what would eventually be a long, uncomfortable night of sunburn. Scowling, he reached for the bottle, trying not to rouse Peggy and Bucky as he doused himself. Too little, too late, probably, but maybe he could mitigate further damage.

Once coated, he retrieved his sketchpad, roughing out Peggy and Bucky’s shapes on the page—her hand resting on his stomach, fingers splayed. His arm beneath her head, so her cheek was pillowed on his tricep. The way his lips were slightly parted, with a smear of chocolate near the corner of his mouth from the cookie he’d eaten. The way the strap of her suit had slipped down one shoulder, revealing a mole Steve hadn’t seen before.

They were perfect. _This_ was perfect. He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky, and he smiled to himself as he bent over the page, working with furious intensity until Peggy began to stir. Bucky followed soon after, and Steve put away the sketches so they could have another swim.

They were in and out of the water twice more before their fellow beachgoers began to retreat. The sun was setting, and the breeze off the ocean had kicked up, though the day was still warm. Peggy donned Bucky’s flannel, huddling against Steve’s side, while Bucky stretched on the blanket in front of them, head in her lap.

“I’m leaving,” she said as the sun slipped below the horizon, voice so quiet Steve nearly didn’t hear her.

“You wanna go?” Bucky asked, tilting his chin.

“No, that’s—” She cleared her throat, and Steve realized she had tears in her eyes.

“Peggy?” he asked.

"I ah. Shit, this is harder than I thought," she said, one hand brushing Bucky's hair from his forehead, winding a lock around her finger. "My mum. There's  …she's bought me a plane ticket. And I start school in the autumn. I thought I was going to be able to stay, but—"

Steve’s stomach dropped onto the sand, leaving him hollowed out, cold water splashed all over the perfect day. “What?” he managed, voice tinny.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, sitting up, blue eyes wide. “ _Fuck_.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she said, and now she was really crying, and oh, God, he’d never seen her cry before.

“How long until…?” Steve asked, mind racing as he worked through his shock. They’d had _plans_. Thoughts. Ideas. He'd been…the school year, and…they were gonna go to Bucky's track meets together. Steve would write them both love songs, and they'd fool around and fall further, and this wasn't _fair,_ and he _hated_ her mother. How the fuck were they supposed to just let her go?

“Two weeks.”

Steve was gonna puke.

“Two _weeks_?” Bucky yelped.

Peggy’s shoulders hunched, and she drew her legs to her chest, hiding her face against her knees. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Steve blurted, desperately wanting her to stop crying. “It’s only two years, right?”

Peggy looked up, blinking her red-rimmed eyes. “What?”

“Two years,” he repeated. “Until we’re done with school. You’ll come back then—go to college with us. And next summer, you’ll be here again, maybe? I bet…you know Sharon would wanna see you, and…and we’ll be here. Right, Buck?”

Expression inscrutable, Bucky nodded. “Yeah. We’ll be here.”

“I’m not—” Peggy closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m not really here because of…it’s not just to see Sharon, that I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked.

“I’m here because something happened at home. Because my mother wanted rid of me.”

Instinctively, Steve moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “What happened?”

Peggy blinked twice, wiping her eyes. “I had a brother,” she said. “Michael. He ah…he died.”

“Shit, Maggie,” Bucky breathed.

"And it …it's my fault."

“What?” Steve said sharply.

Peggy looked out at the water, reciting the story as if in a trance, emotion stripped from her voice. "My parents sent us to good schools—posh schools. I was eternally complaining about how awful it was, but Michael was…well, he managed. When he finished school and went to uni, I bothered him until he drove up for a visit just before the end of term last December. It ah …he'd just gotten a car, and I begged him to let me see it. So, we—he snuck me out to a pub in town. And he was…well, _we_ were drinking. Too much. Then, he drove me back, but the roads were icy, and we hit a patch and—”

She broke off with a gasp. Steve didn’t know what to do, so he hugged her tighter, grateful when Bucky moved to do the same, long arms slipping around them both.

“Michael was my mother’s favorite,” she went on after a moment. “When she found out what had happened—I was in the A&E, and she showed up and began blaming me. Said I’d influenced him. Said I’d killed him. Wasn’t wrong, but—”

"Jesus," Bucky muttered. "That's not your fault."

“Were you hurt?” Steve broke in, a dull horror settling itself in his stomach. He couldn’t imagine his mother being anything but loving in a situation like that.

"Cuts and bruises," she said, voice hoarse as she gave a shuddery little laugh. "The damage was all on his side of the car, and…Christ, I went a bit mad after that. Got myself expelled from that fucking school, which was about when my parents split up. Mum and I started having these massive rows when I came back home. I suppose she wanted rid of me, because the next thing you know, dad's arranged to have me sent here for the summer. Joke's on her, though—she thought it'd be a punishment, but I…fuck. I don't want to go back, and all this time, I'd hoped I might persuade them to keep me."

“Don’t go,” Steve said. “She can’t force you to.”

“Course she can,” Peggy said with a bitter laugh. “Now she knows I’m happy here, she’ll do anything she can to make me miserable. I told you, she _hates_ me.”

“Fuck her.” Bucky’s tone was harsh, giving voice to all the anger and frustration Steve felt. “ _Fuck_ her. Yeah, alright, she can make you leave, but she can't …she can't take away what you had here. And she _can’t_ make you stay.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, tightening his grip on her shoulders. “Fuck her.”

“We’ll be here, you know?” Bucky went on. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Peggy lifted her head, tears staining her cheeks. Steve wanted to kiss them away. To steal her sorrow and rip it between his teeth until it was a million rotten pieces he could stuff deep down inside himself.

"We'll be here," he echoed, leaning in and pressing his lips to her cheek. Tasting the salt of her tears. "You're so smart, Frank. You're gonna get into Columbia or NYU, and we'll be ready because…" he took a deep breath. "I mean, we love you, you know?"

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, squeezing them. “We fuckin’ love you.”

Steve hadn’t known he was going to say it, but the moment he made the declaration, he knew it was true. Even if love sucked. Even if it was full of crushing sorrow and anger and worry and desire, different from anything he’d ever felt before. This clawing, deep compulsion to keep Bucky and Peggy locked in a box so he could keep them safe. Keep them from hurting. Keep them from leaving. Love was an impossible thing, making his head ache and his eyes water. But the way Peggy was looking at them? That made love fucking worth it.

“I—” she hiccuped, a fresh set of tears coursing down her cheeks. “Fuck.”

“When you come back,” Steve said, voice holding a promise as he bumped his forehead against her temple. “We’ll be waiting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading along! Chapter 13 goes up on Tuesday, which is the last chapter before the epilogue, and will feature some incredible art from ellebeesknees. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


	13. take your time, hurry up

**Take your time, hurry up  
** **Choice is yours, don’t be late  
** _-Nirvana_

## 2005

It hadn’t been hard to figure out where Peggy lived, but Bucky still felt like a prime sleuth as he sat on her stoop, cigarette clutched between shaking fingers, cheap paperback open on his lap, the weight of his prosthetic marking his place. The temperature had plummeted in the hour he’d been there, but he’d be damned if he moved. Anyhow, it was nice to be cold, after an afternoon spent in PT, sweating like he’d won a marathon. Except he was no marathon runner; he was more like an elementary school kid during a fun run, or a toddler getting ready to face plant. All arms and legs and ungainliness.

Although, come the fuck on with the pity party, Barnes. He rolled his eyes, shrugging his right shoulder, feeling the ache and reminding himself that he'd lifted that shitty two-pound weight five more times than he had the week before. So fuck feeling sorry for himself—he was more than a fun run these days, and his ungainliness was gaining him something.

The setting sun caught on the glass of a tall building nearby, sending a glare into his eyes and making him wince. Shit, it was getting late. Where the hell was she? Or maybe she wasn’t coming—for all he knew she was traveling on business and wouldn’t be back for days. That was the thing about turning up on someone’s doorstep unannounced: you never knew when they might show up, if at all. Still, Steve was working until nine, so he figured he could hang out until at least eight before heading home. If he had to leave without seeing her, he’d just come back the next day. And the next, and the next, and the next, until fate and time conspired to put Peggy in his path.

Because he was owed an explanation, for Steve's sake, if not his own. And maybe he owed her one, too, for their part in this whole mess of things left unsaid. If she was bound and determined to walk away after that—to break Steve's heart for the second time in the process—then Bucky was at least gonna get him some closure, even if it came at the expense of his own sorrow. Which, alright, yeah, part of him was always gonna be that guy—the guy who bore Steve's grief over losing her the first time, tamping down his own anger and confusion so that he could keep Steve standing.

As if he hadn’t loved her just as much. As if she hadn’t been his girl, too.

Glutton for fucking punishment, that was him through and through.

Cracking his neck, he looked down at his book, purchased from a used bookstore on his way to her place. It was his favorite sort of novel—trade paperback, spine splintered and pages yellowing—a relic of his childhood, one of the melodramatic kinds of stories he'd been enraptured by as a kid. Orphans and ghosts and gunslingers in the old west, as many of them as he could get his hands on, devouring them as fast as he could buy them or check them out of the library. His greatest wish back then had been to be someone _exciting_. To be plucked from his everyday existence and dropped into a story tailor-made for adventure, where he'd be the hero without having to put in the hard work.

In retrospect, those guys didn't have much in the way of interiority. Walked away from their fights without a second thought, injuries purely physical, quickly healed by some pretty nurse who might just fall in love with them. Had they existed in the real world, Bucky'd just bet most of ‘em would be dealing with PTSD and an anxiety disorder, too. Not to mention the years of therapy their pulpy travels and travails would necessitate.

Harder to enjoy a story about a war hero after going to war, was all.

Hard to long for the life of a plucky orphan when you’d watched your boyfriend become one.

“Err, Bucky?”

Bucky's head snapped up. Peggy was standing just beyond the small, latched gate that led to her building, confusion writ large on her heavily made-up features. Pushing himself up using the strength in his legs, he chanced a grin, the book caught between the fingers of his prosthetic so he could tug the cigarette from between his lips. "Hey."

“Hi. I…what are you doing here?”

“We gotta talk, kid.”

An eyebrow arched, matched with her perfectly calculated ‘oh-you’re-being-so-silly’ expression, meted out evenly as she opened the gate and stepped through it in her belted navy trench coat, worn with boots so high they wouldn’t look out of place on Barbarella.

“Do we?” she asked. With the heels, she was nearly his height, except he had a step up on her, so he still held the advantage when she reached the stoop.

“How many balls you bust in those boots today?” he teased, lip curling.

“Don’t be a pig,” she replied. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Thought it was rhetorical—but yes, we do. Need to talk.”

“About?”

“Guess you already know.”

Peggy’s brown eyes regarded him coolly, calm belied by the way her fingers were frantically digging in her bag for a key. “How’s your arm?” she asked, voice artificially polite.

“Much better, thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Gonna invite me up?”

“I suppose it’d be rude not to.”

“Sure, but it’s not like that ever stopped you.”

The blank mask she’d been pasting over her features slipped, and Bucky saw the start of a smile. “Fuck you.”

“C’mon, Maggie,” he said with a grin that was meant to convey enduring affection, or something along those lines. “You owe me a conversation, huh?”

“I don’t—” she pursed her lips. “I owe you a drink. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ll take it.”

Peggy produced her keys with a triumphant “ha!” before undoing the heavy wooden door and leading the way into her well-appointed brownstone. Not so different from the one he and Steve shared in layout, but newer and nicer, with a recently-cleaned entryway and a varnished wooden banister. She lived on the third floor, and Bucky considered himself very gentlemanly for only appreciating her ass twice as she walked ahead of him and opened the door to her place.

The apartment was exactly what he had been expecting—well-appointed and _Peggy-ish,_ but without much in the way of personal touches. It was spacious, with a vestibule that opened to a living room catching the last rays of sunlight through its big, bay windows. Peggy dropped her keys on the hall table before flipping on a light to show off the refinished hardwoods (which stood in stark contrast to the dated parquet of their own apartment), lighting perfectly designed to complement the dove grey paint on the walls.

The living room was full of tasteful furniture right out of some fancy catalog, and Bucky would just bet she hadn’t picked out a bit of it—this place _screamed_ fully-furnished. Hand-selected by some interior decorator hired by a salivating developer eager to hide shoddy upgrades behind that Restoration Hardware vibe. There were a scant few hints of Peggy sprinkled about, though, here and there. A lavender-colored blanket tossed haphazardly across an armchair like she'd been curled under it recently. A coffee mug on a side table, red lipstick on the rim. Both remnants of a rushed morning, and he could just about see it—maybe she'd gotten caught up in something (a good book, or, knowing her, work), only realizing the time too late, then sprinting out the door with the blanket and the half-drunk coffee left awaiting her return.

Beyond those small touches of personality, the room was neat as a pin, with everything in its place. She and Steve were both like that, though with Steve, the cleanliness was a trait learned in adulthood. With Peggy, it seemed bred in. But it made sense, considering how each of them chose to present themselves to the world. They'd always been two of a kind, in that regard, meticulous about their appearances and fussy about perceptions. Steve's carefully calculated look, Bucky had assumed, came from starting his life small, slow to catch up with his peers. All he'd had to show the world beyond his body was the image he presented, so he chose one that was off-putting and grungy and difficult because of it. Even now, he dressed deliberately, cultivating a hipster coolness that he never fully embodied, all the while attempting to show those people who might look down on him that he didn't give a fuck if they judged him.

Peggy, though? Her clothes were more like a suit of armor, put on to shield herself from anyone or anything in the world that might hurt her. That much was made evident when she shed her trench coat and hung it in a tiny hall closet, revealing the tight, grey dress beneath. No-nonsense and businesslike, especially with those boots. She dressed to intimidate, and she’d been building a wall around herself her entire life. Good thing he had brought along a sledgehammer.

“So,” he said as she shut the closet door. “You don’t call, you don’t write…”

Peggy rolled her eyes and pointed to the sofa. “Sit. What’re you having?”

“A conversation.”

“Christ, Bucky…”

“Alright, then. Beer if you’ve got it.”

“Beer, I can do.”

“Then we’ll talk.”

“And here I thought _Steve_ was the dog with a bone,” she said, passing through a small archway into what was presumably a kitchen.

“Woof woof,” he called. “Haven’t you heard that thing about married people?”

“What thing?” she replied, voice accompanied by the opening of the fridge.

“That they start acting like each other, after a while.”

“Oh?” There was a glass clinking. A drawer opening. “So, what does that mean with you two? You get more stubborn, and he gets what, precisely?”

“More charming.”

Bucky could hear her snort, and he grinned, knocking off his sneakers with his toes before sticking his feet on the couch. Content to make himself utterly at home, just to get a rise out of her. Which worked—when she returned from the kitchen, she arched an eyebrow at the sight of him mussing her cushions.

“No,” she said immediately.

“I took my shoes off!”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.”

Passing him a beer, she went to sit down on the nicely appointed leather armchair that had been angled toward the couch in the interior decorator’s approximation of an ideal conversation layout. “You’ll be shocked to hear you’re not the first person in my life to accuse me of that.”

“Truth hurts, kid.”

Peggy took a swig, rolling her eyes. “So what, you’ve come here to be a prick, is that it?”

“Nope. I came here to tell you that you’re being a shithead.”

Peggy froze, and Bucky swung his legs off the sofa. Sat up to watch her make the calculation, quick mind wavering between biting out a sharp retort, or engaging with him on the level at which he’d intended the barb to land. “So,” she said finally. “Is this a detente?”

Bucky nearly sighed in relief. “I didn’t know we were fighting a war, Maggie.”

“We’re not.”

“Steve’s upset.”

“Ah.” Wounded, Peggy sank back against the cushions. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, but you did. And that pisses me off some, because, you know. You did that before. And he’s my guy.”

“Of course you’re angry—”

“You said you’d call.”

“I did!”

"Once or twice," he shrugged. "Then, not at all."

Peggy pursed her lips, studying the label of her beer bottle.

“ _But_ ,” he went on. “Steve’s not the only person involved here. So if we’re throwing the shithead designation around, I guess we gotta own our part in the whole—” He sighed. “The whole…whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is,” she said with a frown. “I wasn’t aware _this_ was anything at all.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t exactly talk about it,” he continued. “And we should have, the first night we kissed you. That was a dumb move on my part, because no shitheads was a decent system when we were kids, but…we’re not kids now.” It was the same thing he’d said to Steve, but it was the truth; he’d been fooling himself to think otherwise.

“No, we’re not.”

“So that’s on me, because I’m the one who said you needed to get kissed, and that’s…we should have talked about it that night, like I said. I knew what I was doing—knew what flirting with you meant—and I let it happen. Let it sit, and put it on you to bring it up. So when you didn’t, I figured we were all on the same page.”

“And what was that page you thought we were on?”

“That you weren’t interested.”

Peggy snorted. “I didn’t want to be some conquest. I thought you two had an open…”

“Steve told me.”

“Right. Yes.”

“Which is—” he grinned. “You’re crazy, you know that? Me, with other people? Shit, I’m barely functioning with Steve—”

“Bucky, you’re…” Peggy tapped her ring finger against the bottle. “You’re lovely, and you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“That’s not really the point, though, is it?” He shrugged. “I took the easy way out—I don’t like confrontation. Not like you and Steve do. I’m pretty happy to just…let things happen? Especially when the things that were happening were nice. Then, I let it happen again, and I thought…hey, cool. This is the thing we’re trying now. But I never asked you, neither of us did. And then you drifted. You stopped calling and coming around, so Steve and I just…”

“I’m not some victim,” she said. “You flirted, sure, but I acted. I let it happen, and I made my choices, which includes the choice to walk away.”

“I know you’re not the victim,” he said evenly, because you didn’t spend a lifetime with Steve Rogers without learning to calm a skittish colt or two. “I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from, and why you made that choice.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

“I panicked.”

“Why?” he pressed, leaning forward.

Peggy blinked, clearing her throat, looking down at her hands, gripping the neck of the bottle. "That's a complicated answer."

“Then start talking,” he said. “I’ve been in therapy long enough to know that if you shoot the shit for a while, you usually come up with something.”

Looking up, Peggy actually laughed. “Hard won wisdom, there.”

“I try.”

That got another smile, and she took a moment before beginning to speak. “Is it stupid to say that I left because I felt hopeful?”

“No such thing as stupid to say. But hopeful’s an…interesting choice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, red nails catching the light as she rolled her fingertips back and forth against the bottle, once more going quiet. Luckily, silence had never bothered him. “I was hopeful because I began thinking the same sorts of things I thought when we were younger. Feeling those same feelings for the both of you. And the thing is, Bucky, the truly frightening thing is…that summer was the last time I can recall being _happy_. Which is so strange to think, considering the circumstances. God knows I was still grieving Michael back then—he’d hardly been gone six months, and I was so, so angry. At my mum, at the world, at fate, at _everything_. Then you two came along, and you were the first people, maybe the _only_ people, who were able to cut through that anger. To lance the abscessed wound that my whole life had become and make me feel something else. Joy, terror, frustration—the good things, and the bad. But I was alive again when I was with you. When we were us."

“You cut us out pretty well, in spite of that,” Bucky said quietly.

"I did, yes," she said. "And I told Steve some of this, but not…all of it. Because the thing is, when I left, when I lost you both? I arrived in London, and that grief came back with such shocking intensity that it nearly killed me, and I thought…no. I'll never do this again. Never love anyone again, you know?"

“Not really,” he admitted. “But I guess I can see how the uh…how that could be debilitating.”

"For a long time, I wasn't even sure I wanted to have a life at all," she shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I wasn't suicidal, but I hated my mum, I hated my school, I hated waking up every day, faced with the prospect of another morning. I slept all the time unless I was forced to be somewhere. And despite it all, I couldn't even cry. Isn't that awful?"

Bucky could relate to the crushing weight of depression in a way he couldn’t relate to her grief, so he nodded. “Yeah, I uh…I get that. What changed?”

“Nothing, really. I just…eventually, the veil parted, and I got on with the business of living. Took a gap year in between school and uni, did some traveling. Put one foot in front of the other. Cut my mother out and looked after myself. Used success to fuel success mostly to spite her.”

“And?”

“And,” she continued, voice shaking a bit now. “I got this fucking job offer in New York, which I jumped at, because in the back of my mind all I could think about was you two, holding me on a beach in Brooklyn and telling me that you’d be there waiting when I came home.”

“Maggie— “

“No, let me finish,” she said, voice catching. “When I—when I saw Steve at that show, I thought there might have been a chance. But then I saw him with _you,_ and I realized you two were perfect together. You always have been. When things started getting complicated, I didn’t…I couldn’t let myself hope, and I wasn’t going to ruin what you had by forcing myself in where I didn’t belong, to try and recapture something I walked away from. So I left. Again. That’s why.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky said. “Far be it from me to call you a liar, but you got that just about as wrong as you possibly could have.”

Peggy scowled. “Pardon?”

“You didn’t—that whole premise? Us being perfect together? That’s _real_ faulty logic, kid. Cause here’s the thing about me and Steve: we fight _all the time_. I leave wet towels on the floor, he farts all night. I’m messy, he’s anal retentive—we got a real Felix and Oscar vibe going there. Sometimes his feet smell, and other times I make him pop the zits on my back—”

Peggy choked on the swig of beer she’d taken, making Bucky smile.

“—I got a real bad habit of going days without showering, and Christ knows I smoke too much fuckin’ weed. Steve doesn’t value himself enough, and sometimes I worry he resents me for having to put his career on hold so he could take care of me.”

“Bucky, that’s…Steve _loves_ you.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t, and I’m not saying he hates our life or anything. All I’m saying is that there’s part of him that resents it—resents _me_ —same as there's a part of me that resents him for having two fuckin' hands he doesn't use to pursue the thing he's most talented at. But you know what else, about Steve and me?"

“What?”

“I love the shit out of his punk ass,” he grinned. “Warts and all. Because that’s—Jesus, Maggie, love’s not dramatic declarations on a beach. Love’s showing the fuck up for someone. That’s it. Love’s the guy who holds your hair back when you’re puking, cause your new meds have you all fucked up. Love’s the guy who rubs your shoulder when it hurts. Love…love’s the person who comes to the hospital with a box of cinnamon rolls, or shows up at your door with a six-pack and forces some hard truths on you when you need to hear them.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she managed.

“Oh, honey,” Bucky laughed, leaning forward to hold her gaze, so there was no mistaking what he said next. “That night, when you were oh-so-subtly dropping hints about the surgery? You said all this wise shit like…oh, what do you have to lose, Bucky? If you try, and you fail, then you’ll be no worse off than when you started. But if you _never_ try, you’re only screwing yourself. So, here I am, Maggie May, and I’m throwing all of that right back at your feet. What the fuck do you have to lose? Give us a shot. Because Steve and I? We want you, we both do, and we’re here—we’ve _been_ here—we were just too dumb to let you know.”

Peggy’s chin was shaking, and she swiped at her eyes, a raccoon’s mask left in the wake of her fist. “Fuck,” she muttered.

“Aw shit, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Oh, _bullshit_.”

“Yeah, alright,” he grinned, using his trembling right hand to put his beer on the table before dropping to his knees and shuffling to her chair on them. “Let’s figure it out, huh? I promise you, we want to try. But we can’t do that if you won’t try with us—if you run off again.”

“I—”

“Steve’s gonna get off work soon,” he said, pressing his advantage as well as a kiss to her knee. “C’mon back with me, sweetheart. We’ll pick up some food, surprise him. You know how much he likes surprises—”

Peggy snorted. “He’s angry with me.”

“Yeah, well, you can be pissed at him, too, or be pissed at me—he’s good at that. He can give you some pointers,” he offered. “You two are an awful lot alike, you know.”

“Bucky—”

“I mean it. You’re both stubborn, and you’re kinda like…angry hellcats when you’re cornered. All bristly and hissing.”

“Far be it from me to disagree with such a glowing assessment.”

“Let’s just _talk_ about it, Maggie, seriously. Fight about it—get into the muck and the mire. All three of us. Together. Forget the shithead rule and start from scratch so we can figure out what we wanna be. Because shit, honey, I think we're _something_.”

Cards on the table, Bucky waited for her reply, knowing he would leave if she said no. Console Steve as best he was able; try to convince himself that their lives weren’t missing anything. But deep down, they’d know it could have been more. Could have been different, with her.

But if she said no, he and Steve would make it through, in the end—they’d move on. They’d be fine. They’d have each other.

Peggy, though? He wasn’t sure about her. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to get on with living this closed-off way, and sure as shit didn’t like the thought of what she might become in this well-appointed, grey room that wasn’t enough to hold her.

A hand brushed through his hair. Cupped his cheek. Bucky lifted his head.

“Let’s go and see Steve,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Nearly an hour later, they were in Brooklyn, rushing down the block, Peggy still in her ridiculous (oh-so-sexy) boots, holding a bag of sandwiches from the only reputable deli in their neighborhood. They would have made better time, but she had insisted on digging something out of a box in her bedroom—a thing that made Bucky smile, but also a thing that put them behind schedule. Now, unless Steve dawdled (and Steve rarely dawdled), they were only going to beat him by a couple of minutes, which made Bucky anxious. Because he wanted to surprise Steve with Peggy, which was a stupid idea, but Bucky had lived a life full of them.

“I’m nervous,” Peggy admitted upon reaching the apartment, as Bucky turned his key and used his prosthetic to shove open the squeaky door.

“He’s probably gonna be an asshole,” he agreed. “You ready for that?”

“I suppose I’ll manage,” she said, following him in. “Do you think it’d sway him if I got my tits out?”

Bucky glanced down, then back up to meet her eyes, before shrugging. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Lovely.”

“You offered!”

“Let’s see how this goes. For all we know, nobody’s tits’ll be out before the end of the night,” she smirked.

He laughed, tossing his head toward the living room. “Why don’t you go put on some music?”

“Suits me,” she agreed, heading for the stereo while he went into the kitchen to put the sandwiches on plates. A peace offering of prosciutto, as it were.

A couple minutes after that, Kurt Cobain’s dulcet (sigh) tones began to fill the air, because Peggy was apparently making a play for Steve’s heartstrings. Bucky tried not to grimace—he really fucking hated Nirvana.

“Come in here and help me with these, Courtney Love,” he called, because while he could handle plating, carrying was still beyond his strength.

“Ha, ha,” she said, joining him with a smile, humming along under her breath. They arranged things on the coffee table in the living room, and Bucky went back to the kitchen for napkins and knives. He was on his way back when Steve’s key began turning in the lock, and he dropped the supplies quickly before going to Peggy’s side.

“Shit,” she fretted.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

“Buck?” Steve called upon opening the door.

“In here, pal.”

“You’re not gonna _believe_ the—oh, fuck.” Steve stopped in the entryway, eyes gone wide.

“Hi,” Peggy said, raising her hand in the dorkiest wave Bucky’d ever had the privilege of witnessing.

“Uh.” Steve blinked and stepped closer, squinting. It took a second for Bucky to realize he was looking at her neck. Specifically, something around her neck. “Is that…”

Peggy touched the necklace, which was the item that had caused their delay, fetched from her room, and fastened into place. "I never got rid of it," she admitted.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Bucky grinned. “I shoulda asked for it back when I first saw you.”

“You _gave_ it to me.”

“It was a _loan_!”

“Why are you here?” Steve asked, cutting them off.

“Errr. I brought sandwiches?” Peggy said, gesturing to the plate.

“That’s—” Steve shook his head. “No. Why are you _here_.”

“Because,” she began, swallowing hard. “Because I’m here, I suppose. Because we ought to talk. And because I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Steve echoed.

“I should have given you an explanation rather than just…drifting off.”

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “You should have.”

"And I—" she began, just as Steve continued with, "but I'm sorry, too—" and Bucky started on, "maybe we should—" which left them in a three-way face-off for the most awkward way to start a sentence.

“So…if you’re _both_ sorry,” Bucky chanced. “Can we dispense with the formalities, and move on to negotiations?”

Steve and Peggy turned to him with twin expressions of consternation, like lions circling a particularly juicy antelope.

“Do I need a lawyer, Buck?” Steve asked.

“Probably,” he replied. “This is real serious shit.”

“So serious,” Peggy agreed. “They’ve convened the UN to handle drawing up the treaty, I’m fairly sure—”

“If you two are gonna make _jokes_ ,” Bucky sighed, content to play the aggrieved middleman, so long as it got them talking. Moving toward reconciliation rather than recrimination.

“Aw, sorry, Buck,” Steve laughed.

“We shouldn’t tease,” Peggy agreed.

“You can tease a little,” he said, looking between them both. “So uh, we gonna do this, or what?”

As it turned out, they were.

 

## 1993

Two weeks was no time at all. Fourteen days and thirteen nights, and then where the fuck were they? Peggy on one side of the ocean, him and Steve on the other, dealing with whatever bullshit the vacuum of her absence would create. Because like, what the fuck did her going make him and Steve, exactly? _Boyfriends_? They sure as shit weren’t gonna go back to school holding hands, unless they just had a real desire to get punched in the teeth by some homophobic dickhead like Gilmore Hodge. But, at the same time, he and Steve _were_ going to be together—that was a given—it was just that having Peggy might have made things easier, as far as the social politics of junior year went. She would have been a buffer—a cool mystery chick that nobody could figure out, who was maybe dating both or neither of them, or whatever, the rumors swirling enough to drown out any hints of homosexuality.

There was also the disconcerting thought that Bucky wasn’t sure he knew how to be with Steve without Peggy. Like, how were they romantic, exactly? What did that look like, when it was just the two of them? Sure, it was still love, but did they have to start over with everything else?

Plus, like, beyond that: he was going to miss the fuck out of Peggy when she left. Which was kind of hilarious, given that they'd started the summer at one another's throats, but also really sad because they hadn't had enough time to be happy. Jesus, he was in love with her, too. Different from how he was in love with Steve, but it meant something. He wasn't sure what yet, but when he'd declared it at the beach, he'd meant it with everything he had.

Part of him resented that he wasn't gonna get the chance to explore what that individual love for Peggy meant. To see it as its own thing, rather than as part of the ways his feelings for her tangled with his feelings for Steve. Because the love he felt for Steve went deeper than he'd been able to acknowledge before Peggy had come and forced him to deal with it. And while loving them both didn't feel like splitting his heart, it still felt like Peggy had gotten the short end of the stick. Or, like, maybe all three of them had, because she was leaving, and he didn't know what to do with all the affection and attraction and this new, weird desire to bite both their faces whenever they made out. Which was something he was gonna tuck deep down inside because even Steve and Peggy had their limits.

Mostly, love felt like getting kicked in the nuts while his heart thumped out of his chest, and his mouth got dry at the thought of her going. At the thought of not being able to call her, or tease Steve with her, or tease _her_ with Steve, or like…kiss her. Touch her. Smell her. Or all the other little things he’d figured out that he really liked doing with her.

Love was _bullshit_. It wasn’t like the movies, and it wasn’t like in books. Tolkien could talk all he wanted to about, like, Beren and Luthien and lifelong fealty, but the fact remained that Peggy was gonna be an ocean away and he and Steve were dual Samwise Gamgees, standing at the Grey Havens, watching Frodo sail into some fucking mythical Elvish mist, or whatever.

Which, actually? That was a pretty apt description of love: getting your heart put into a wood chipper because all your thoughts were tied up in _other people_. Which meant Bucky was grieving her impending departure as much as he was worried about the mess she’d leave behind. Because for all that Steve puffed out his chest and insisted he was fine, Bucky _knew_ him. Knew he put on a mask when anyone dared suggest he might be feeling something other than fine. Knew that Steve got weird and surly when he was upset, so probably he’d be shitty and mean for a while, until it exploded into a big fight, accidentally instigated by Bucky through some throwaway comment that offended Steve for some unknown reason.

So, like, yeah. He loved them. But they were giving him a headache.

And they only had two weeks. Two weeks to be with her. Two weeks to reconcile the fact that soon they wouldn’t be. Two weeks to cram in as much shit as they could, spending every moment with her, unaccountably pissed when work or familial obligations kept them apart.

They saw one another every single day after she told them, using any excuse, filling the time with inanities that felt monumental, simply because she was still there with them. They even took her to school—not real school, but an event being put on for those kids going into advanced placement history, which happened to include Steve and Bucky. They couldn’t countenance spending an entire morning without her, so she sat in the back of the classroom with a book, while Steve and Bucky met the new teacher, received pre-reading and an admonition about being prepared for a tough class before being released on their own recognizance.

It was eerie, being in school without _being_ in school, so they took full advantage. Wandering the halls with her, pointing out significant landmarks, like the trophy case which Steve had been shoved against the third day of freshman year, or where Bucky had run into a door and split his lip wide open. Peggy smiled at the stories but grew more and more maudlin throughout the tour.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bucky asked, nudging her shoulder as they turned a corner.

"It's only…I keep imagining how different this would be if I were coming to school here," she said, leaning against a bank of lockers with a frown.

Bucky, who wasn’t the most eloquent in the face of wishes he couldn’t grant, moved closer to put one hand on either side of her head before leaning down to kiss her.

“Don’t,” she sighed, pushing him back with a shove to his chest. “Not right now.”

“Nobody’s watching,” he protested. That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, causing her frown to deepen, a scowl rivaling Steve on his worst day overtaking her features.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your libido with my _feelings_ , Bucky.”

“Oh, c’mon…”

“No, honestly, why don’t I—”

“Just stay,” Steve blurted, stopping the squabble before it could pick up steam.

“What?” Peggy frowned, looking over at him.

“Just _stay_. Fuck your ma, you know? What’s she gonna do, drag you back in chains?”

Peggy blinked. “Not _chains_ , but…my aunt and uncle aren’t going to go against—”

“Stay with me, then,” he said, serious as ever. Trying to save the world, or at least their small portion of it. “My ma loves you. I’ll talk to her, and—”

“Steve,” Bucky said, while Peggy’s face crumpled. “C’mon, you know your ma’s not gonna go for that.”

“Well, fuck!” Steve yelled, sneaker colliding with the front of a locker, the sound of the hit echoing up and down the long, empty hall. “This is bullshit!”

“Yup,” Bucky agreed, though not so loudly.

“It _is_ bullshit,” Peggy said, shouting to match Steve. “And my mum’s a rotten _bitch_.”

“ _Fuck_ her!” Steve hollered.

Bucky had just opened his mouth to join them when Peggy let out a long, terrible scream of frustration and rage, something primal and pure, which was both the best and the scariest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Which made him want to do it, too, so he joined her. Exchanged a glance with Steve before they added their voices to her chorus, the three of them howling their ineffectual anger at the drop ceiling, daring the world to stop them.

Which the world did, as a very adult voice rose above the fray. “Hey! You kids knock it off!”

Bucky snapped his mouth shut and looked around to find a vaguely familiar administrative staff member standing with a stack of manila folders in his arms, and a sour expression on his face.

“Uh, sorry,” Bucky said, though he didn’t feel sorry at all.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man reprimanded.

“True!” Steve agreed, grabbing Peggy and Bucky each by the hand. “Thanks for reminding us. Bye!”

Steve’s retort was so profoundly stupid that it had Bucky cackling by the time they burst out the front doors of the school. There was no stopping the momentum, and they took the steps two at a time, running and running until his chest felt like it would burst with joy and fear and love, because this was good, and right, and how things were supposed to be. The three of them. Together.

And in that moment—that one, perfect moment—he believed it would be fine. That they would endure.

Reality caught up with them less than a week later.

Peggy had been the one who insisted on saying their goodbyes the night before she left, so they’d had a private moment, tucked away in her uncle’s office, before Steve and Bucky departed for their homes. Peggy insisted that they didn’t need to come by the next day because she’d be fine, and she didn’t want a fuss.

Fuck fine. Steve and Bucky were fussing.

Her uncle had hired a car to take her to the airport, which made it easy enough to surprise her. They turned up in the early afternoon, waiting across the street until the car pulled up and Peggy emerged from the building with her uncle, who was lugging her suitcase. By the looks of it, goodbyes with Sharon and Susan had happened upstairs, which made things easier.

“Hey!” Steve called, as her uncle and the driver wrestled her bag into the trunk.

Peggy turned, confusion writ large as she saw them, eyes going wide and a grin spreading across her face, although she tried to look disapproving. “What…?”

“We’re gonna come with you,” Bucky said, only to have Steve elbow him in the side. “To the airport, I mean.”

“But you can’t—” she said, the protest feeble and falling on deaf ears as they jogged across the street, nearly clipped by an oncoming taxi which honked its frustration at both them and the double-parked town car.

“We’ll take the bus back,” Steve said. “We already figured out the route. Hi, Mr. Carter.”

Sharon’s dad smiled, and if he thought the two of them accompanying Peggy to the airport was odd, he didn’t say so. “Hi, Steve.”

(Notably, he didn’t greet Bucky. Which, like, fair? Bucky _had_ felt up Sharon in the dude’s living room, but he was pretty sure he didn’t actually know about that? Or, well, he hoped he didn’t, anyway.)

“You should get going,” Mr. Carter said, opening the door for Peggy. “Traffic’ll be getting bad soon.”

Steve and Bucky didn't need an invitation, and they tumbled into the car first. Peggy took a moment longer, hugging her uncle, and accepting the fistful of bills he pressed into her palm before getting in with them, clambering over Steve so she was in the middle, which was precisely where they wanted her to be. Bolstered on either side, holding their hands, making inane small talk as the car pulled away from the curb.

It wasn’t until they were nearer to the airport that Peggy started crying. Real quiet, at first, but there was no missing the way her face screwed up, or the way she kept blinking like a weirdo, eyes red-rimmed and nose running.

“Aw, Maggie,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

“Sorry. I thought I got all of this out last night.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Steve said. “Not with us.”

“Yeah. We don’t care how disgusting and snotty you are,” he agreed.

“Shut up,” she said, laughing through her tears in a way that sounded like an air horn.

“I mean it. I’d let you blow your nose on me any day, and—“

“Shut up!” she repeated. “How the hell am I supposed to be proper sad when you’re so ridiculous?”

"Guess you can't be. Anyway, you gotta remember me at my best, so you'll come back."

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, hooking his chin over her shoulder. “What’s two years between shitheads, right?”

Peggy smiled, lips drawn tight, squeezing their hands. “Shall I tell Amanda to fuck herself from both of you, then?”

“The second you see her,” Steve nodded.

“Yeah, like, the _instant_ you’re off the plane,” Bucky agreed.

She grinned through her tears. “I will do. And as soon as I’m settled at school, I’ll ah…I’ll write.”

“With your phone number,” Bucky said.

“Right.”

“And the number at your ma’s new place, when you find out what it is,” Steve agreed, because Peggy didn’t actually know her number yet, so all they had to go on was an address.

“Yes, that as well.”

“We’ll write, too. And like, we’re already looking at getting phone cards so we can call you,” Steve said.

“They’re not even that expensive!” Bucky exclaimed. “It’s gonna be fine. We’ll talk all the time.”

Peggy gave him a half-smile at that, and he rubbed his thumb against the join of her fingers, feeling like he ought to provide her with something better than reassurance. Some token of how he— _they_ —felt. Letting go of her hand, he reached up to pop the clasp on one of his necklaces, tugging off the nylon strap and holding it out to her.

“Here. This is for you.”

The necklace was simple—a black band adorned with a circular silver pendant embossed with a red star—but he’d bought it from a vendor while out with both of them, which made it feel important. Like it was right for her to hold onto it, some talisman linking them together until she saw them again.

“Really?” she asked, fingering the necklace like it was made of gold. “Will you put it on me?”

“Sure,” he said, letting her turn her back before clasping it around her neck.

She closed her fingers around the charm the moment it was in place, voice thick. “Thank you,”

“It’s not…you can’t keep it,” he said. “You have to give it back to me when you come home.”

“I will,” she said. “I swear it.”

They were nearly there by then, with the signs directing them to JFK growing steadily more detailed. Sending them to departures, where the driver let them out before going to get Peggy’s bag.

She tipped him with one of the bills her uncle had given her, then all three of them headed inside. Steve and Bucky hung back while she went through ticketing, before trooping through security with her and finding their way to the terminal that held her gate. They had time to kill, so they spent it eating an overpriced airport lunch paid for by Peggy’s mother’s credit card. (Steve suggested she use the money from her uncle; Peggy said she was saving it for when she came back, and also, fuck her mother.)

After lunch, as they noodled around a store, trying on perfume samples and marveling at novelty-sized chocolate, it was easy to pretend that Peggy wasn’t going. That they weren’t about to call her flight, then her row, and that then, she’d be gone.

But, of course, that was only pretending. A voice came over the loudspeaker eventually, forcing them to hug her for as long as they were able, standing by the gate until the final warning was given and she had no choice but to leave them. To pull back and disappear down the jetway.

Steve and Bucky went to the window and watched until the plane left the terminal, sunlight glinting off the metal.

When it was completely gone, Steve leaned his head against Bucky's arm, a hitch in his breathing. Bucky didn't give a shit who saw them at that moment, and he wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulders, holding him close and pressing a kiss to his temple.

They stayed there, frozen, until the sun had set. Until a dozen or more planes had taken off and they were sure she was gone.

“Ready to go?” Bucky asked, scratchy voice breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he said, straightening up. “You wanna come over? Spend the night?”

“Sure, definitely,” he agreed, reaching out to straighten the collar of Steve’s ratty cardigan and push his hair from his eyes.

“We uh…” Steve shrugged. “We should write her a letter.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is all she wrote! Well, except that there's a 4k word epilogue coming, because I'm never one for being concise. That will post Friday, and features additional art.
> 
> Speaking of art: holy freaking _crap_ , didn't Lena ([ellebeesknees](http://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com)) do an earth-shatteringly good job on the trio as teens? Please leave her love in the comments, and [reblog the art on Tumblr](https://lenadraws.tumblr.com/post/185525551701/one-of-my-contributions-for-the-capreversebb) or [retweet it on Twitter](https://twitter.com/umetnica/status/1138543775356203009). This story wouldn't exist without her incredible inspiration! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


	14. epilogue

**Jesus don’t want me for a sunbeam** **  
****Sunbeams are never made like me** **  
** _-Nirvana_

 

## 2007

Steve had his back to her, sitting on the bench in the lobby, just past the security desk, but Peggy knew the expression she’d find on his face. That mulish, sour grapes scowl that settled on him like a blanket soaked in cat piss and vinegar whenever he was forced to wait for her or Bucky longer than fifteen minutes.

“Sorry, love,” she called, stepping past the barrier, keeping her voice light. Yep, there it was—nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed. “My meeting went long.”

“We’re gonna be _late_.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” she said, waving off his concern as she kissed his cheek and dropped her hand to the small of his back, no doubt drawing whispers as they left the lobby. Keeping it professional at work had been a concern in the early days, when Steve had still been freelancing, but now? Now, she didn’t care. Steve didn’t report to her directly, despite being full-time, after all. Instead, he worked for Kerry, who worked for Peggy, who had recently been given her own imprint to run.

Or, well, it wasn’t _her_ imprint, precisely. Marvel belonged to Carol Danvers, because Carol—riding high on the success of her twelfth platinum album—had renegotiated her contract, and in doing so had founded her own label within the label, focused on underrepresented artists, especially women. Kamala Khan, having come over from Rebirth proper, was one of their first signees, and Peggy couldn’t have been happier about that. Especially because Kamala’s first album had been a runaway success, and now they were working on her second.

Carol, despite being the titular head of Marvel, was often busy with touring and the business of being an incredibly successful musician. As such, she'd wanted someone to run the day-to-day operations, and being as she and Peggy had a friendship going back several years, as well as a healthy dose of mutual respect, she'd asked her to lead the label. Peggy had accepted, naturally, and she'd spent the past several months hiring her own team and handling the heavy lifting—one of the youngest women to ever take on something so monumental. She loved every minute. Power suited her, she found, which was probably what tyrants thought, too, but she was trying to be magnanimous and decent. She read a lot of management books, at any rate.

Her first order of business had been to hire Kerry to head up marketing, and Kerry—with _zero_ nepotism other than the nepotism that had already taken place—hired Steve, because Steve was excellent, and a valuable asset. So now Steve had health insurance, a half-decent paycheck, and the opportunity to eat lunch with Peggy every day if he so chose. Which he did, most days, but not all, because the rumor mill around Rebirth churned as much as at any other organization, spitting out speculation along the lines of Steve-works-for-her, and hey-isn't-she-married. Peggy wasn't shocked that the most egregious accusations flowed her way—wanton woman abusing her position, blah, blah, blah. As if anyone knew shit about anything.

“Gum?” she offered when they reached the station and started down the steps, pulling a pack from her bag.

“Nope.”

“Suit yourself, sour patch,” she said, popping a stick into her mouth while telling herself it was just as good as a cigarette, which was an absolute lie, but one of Steve’s sad-puppy cancer spiels had hit her hard the previous Christmas, so she’d quit for his sake. Or, well, she was trying to. “He’ll be late. You know he will.”

Steve harrumphed and swiped his MetroCard, pushing through the turnstile, then calling over his shoulder, “he won’t!”

"He will! His class always runs over, and then he has to talk to his instructor, and that other one …what's her name, and—"

“Shit,” Steve said, cutting her off. “Train!”

He was off like a shot, darting through the crowd and taking the steps to the platform two at a time, leaping onto the ready-to-depart train and holding the doors for her, even as the crowd protested. She followed him in seconds later, the passive-aggressive electronic voice overhead admonishing them to stand clear of the closing doors, _please_.

“Christ, warn a girl,” she said, pressing herself against him as the train shuddered its way forward.

“I did!” he said.

“Well, you’re too bloody fast.”

“I eat my Wheaties. Hey, that skirt looks good on you.”

“You saw it this morning.”

“Yeah, but I never told you this morning,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers as his fingers wrapped around her hand on the pole.

“Well, thank you. You’re looking quite dashing in your—motherfuck!” The brakes squealed, and the train ground to a halt.

“Fucking _infrastructure_ ," Steve growled because he'd never met a city planning problem he couldn't grouse about.

“Indeed.”

It wasn’t long before the inevitable announcement came over the intercom, informing them that there was a delay on the tracks. At least, that’s what Peggy _thought_ the voice had said—hard to tell, sometimes, with the gobbledygook of an outdated intercom masquerading as efficient communications.

“That’s Bucky’s shirt,” she said, making conversation as she tugged on the red flannel peeking out from the collar of Steve’s coat.

“It used to be.”

“Would that we could all wear Bucky’s clothes to work—”

“Yeah, well,” Steve grinned. “You look better in his shirts than I do.”

“I know.”

“You look good in those pencil skirts, too, boss.”

“That’s also true,” she said, leaning in to give him a peck. “Kamala’s stuff is perfect, by the way—that was the meeting that made me late. We were all gushing over your work.”

“Gross,” he said, though a pleased flush had risen in his cheeks. “Kerry like…made a lot of corrections.”

“Don’t be so bloody self-deprecating. You know I don’t like it.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it.”

“I heard you,” he said, hand slipping around to rest against her hip. “Oh, hey…”

“Hey, what?”

“Did you remember the present?”

“Mmmhmm, it’s in my bag.”

“He’s gonna hate it.”

“He is, indeed.”

“And complain it’s too expensive.”

“That, too.”

“Cool. I can’t wait.” Steve kissed her again, the warmth of his lips lingering on her cheek, as the train juddered to life, lights flickering once or twice before it rocked forward.

“How much do you wanna bet it stops again?” Steve asked, lips quirking up.

“Ten dollars says it’s within two stops.”

“I say three.”

One and a half stops later, Peggy won.

 

* * *

 

For once in his thirty years on the planet, Bucky had been super early. Like, twenty whole minutes early, because he wasn’t about to let Steve and Peggy _beat_ him. Not with the amount of shit they gave him for being late all the time. So he’d hot-footed it out of class, sprinted for the subway, and arrived at the totally-dead-dive-bar they liked with time to spare, only to discover that they hadn’t arrived yet. A solvable problem, though—he ordered a beer and spread out in an empty booth, nursing the drink and twiddling his proverbial thumbs while waiting for them to show up.

Except, they didn’t. Not after twenty minutes. Or thirty. Or forty. Time ticking by as Bucky sat there, peevish as Steve on his worst day, the bar around him growing steadily more crowded, filling up with the workday crowd as six o’clock ticked toward seven with no sign of the so-called loves of his life. Pushing a hand through his newly-shorn hair (well, not _that_ new—six months now since he’d started seeing a barber), Bucky grumbled under his breath, as if there were anyone to hear him.

If he had to stake a guess, he’d say it was Peggy’s fault, because of the two of them, she was the workaholic. Steve wasn’t as bad, but they were coming from the same place, so it wasn’t like he could leave without her. That was new, this thing with both of them in midtown all day long, while Bucky did his time in the classroom. He wasn’t jealous—jealousy didn’t work in an arrangement like theirs—but there was a part of him that hated them spending so much extra time together. A part of him that resented the lunches out and the work talk when they got home.

So, you know, he’d talked to them about it. Like an adult. Because they talked now. Communication being a big part of their relationship, and all. And they’d agreed that work talk would stop at the door to the apartment, which (for Peggy especially) was a huge fucking concession. The other thing was, without prompting or discussion, she’d begun calling him. Like, a couple times a day, every day. Narrating whatever she was doing for five minutes or so, whether that was grabbing a quick bite to eat, or going to the break room for a coffee. It reminded him of what she’d done when she’d first fallen in with them again, those little phone calls to say hi, and though neither of them ever said it out loud, Bucky was grateful. Because for all that he loved what he was doing, he missed them when they were gone.

He did love it, though. This culinary school thing. The fact of that shocked him as much as anyone else, because after all the time he'd spent expecting to fail, it was the best kind of miracle to be succeeding. Granted, he wasn't the top of his class, but he sure as shit wasn't the bottom, and for every skill he'd never be able to manage (tossing pizza dough came to mind), there were others he excelled at. Who else could stick their hand in a pot of boiling water to fish out an errant onion peel, after all?

Post-surgery and PT, his right arm was stronger than it had ever been since the accident, while the pain in his shoulder had ebbed to a dull roar rather than a fiery dragon. Never completely gone, but shit, he'd take manageable over monstrous. As for his left side? Things were better there, too. Which all went back to his health insurance. Because that was a thing he had now—a thing all three of them had—insured through Rebirth's gold-plated plan. Good for any number of things, from checkups to (if things went according to plan, a few years down the line) maternity coverage. They came by the benefit honestly, though, Steve and Peggy from their jobs and Bucky through marriage. Namely, marriage to Peggy. That had happened about a year prior, when she'd seen some of their medical bills and declared them "bullshit" before marching him down to the courthouse. Steve had been a witness, and they'd gone out for a meal afterward. She hadn't worn white, but he'd deigned to put on a tie, and they'd consummated the marriage twice over before the end of the day.

So yeah, the left side. Not great, but better, thanks to his new, trial prosthetic, which had some rudimentary circuit board shit in it that gave him more dexterity than he’d ever had with his bare-bones VA-provided option. The trial, weirdly enough, came through his new primary care physician, whom both Steve and Peggy had insisted he see. That doctor knew another doctor who’d known _another_ doctor who worked for NYU, and whose lab happened to be developing the prosthetic. They’d needed trial participants, and although initially reluctant, Bucky had gone for it in the end, lest he be forced to endure another patented Peggy Carter “what do you have to lose?” cheering squad lecture.

Lotta good things about being married to Peggy. Lotta upsides.

Her lack of punctuality, though? That wasn’t one of them.

See if he ever cooked for them again. And he’d been learning _sauces_ this week. Those two assholes were gonna regret—

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Peggy’s voice came through the crowd, and he looked up to find her and Steve pushing their way past the hockey fans assembled to watch the Rangers play the Penguins.

Bucky, determined not to smile, raised a brow. “Lemme guess,” he began as she dropped into the booth, scooting across the squeaky vinyl to throw her arms around him. “Meetings?”

“I’m prostrating myself at your feet, my love,” she said, covering his cheek with red-lipsticked kisses. “Happy birthday.”

“Yeah, yeah—” he said, the pushed down smile spreading itself across his face in spite of his grumpiness, leaning into her hug and the smell of her perfume.

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve echoed, flopping down next to her and reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “Train shit, too. We musta stopped ten times before we even hit the river.”

“That’s what you get for working in Manhattan.”

“I’ll talk to Carol about opening up that Brooklyn branch,” Peggy said drolly. “Will that do?”

“I guess I might find it in me to forgive you, someday,” he conceded.

“Shots!” Peggy exclaimed. “Shots will fix everything—good for what ails you! Then presents, then beer, and…Steve, darling, go, go, go—shots for the birthday boy!” Digging into her bag, she produced a credit card and handed it over. “Open a tab.”

“Why do I gotta—”

“You’re closest to the bar,” she said, which was a very logical argument, even though Steve was only closer by inches.

“Fine,” he grumbled, disappearing into the throng.

Peggy, meanwhile, lay her chin on Bucky’s shoulder. “Am I in big, big trouble?” she asked, breath tickling his neck as he pulled back to look at her, only to find she’d put on her very best pout.

“Yeah,” he grinned. “Big, big trouble, kid. Gonna put you over my knee right in front of all these nice people, and—”

“Oh,” she sighed, hand falling to his lap. “Don’t _tease_.”

“I never tease,” he said, lifting his hips in faux-invitation as her fingers crept further north. “Is that my birthday present?”

"You fucking wish," she laughed, nipping at his jaw before sitting back to unbutton her coat, revealing the Business Shirt she had on underneath—some tight, black thing clinging to her curves, with a leopard print collar, and a deep-V neckline that couldn't quite contain her cleavage. He had been asleep when she and Steve left that morning, so he hadn't had the chance to appreciate it the way it deserved. Christ, the little outfits she wore, from the pencil skirts to the blazers to the sky-high heels. They were enough to drive a guy wild—to drive _two_ guys wild, come to think—and yeah, alright, maybe they’d role-played naughty secretary or scary boss once or twice. Sue them.

“You look, uh, pretty,” he said, eyes traveling to her face, catching on the red star necklace she’d worn for the evening. “Hey—”

“Special occasion,” she replied, reaching into her bag to produce an envelope, along with a small, rectangular box, both of which she set on the table.

“What’s that?”

“My foot in your arse,” she said primly. “What do you think?”

“I think you think you’re funnier than you are.”

“Far be it from me to kid a kidder.”

“Shots!” Steve called, returning triumphantly with six tiny glasses of amber liquid balanced precariously between his palms. “Let’s go!”

“You guys, I already drank beer—” Bucky protested.

“I’ll rub your back when you’re puking,” she said, picking up a glass the moment Steve put them down.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but did as Peggy did, sniffing the shot to discover Steve had gone for whiskey. Whether it was the cheap shit or top shelf, he couldn't say, but knowing Steve? Probably the former. "You both suck for being late."

“We’ve moved past that now,” Peggy said, waiting for Steve to get settled before lofting her shot to the sky. “Here’s to Bucky being older than both of us. Very, very old, in fact.”

“Here, here,” Steve agreed. “Here’s to thirty! You’re practically dead!”

“Chin fucking chin, kids,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes and clinking his glass against theirs before downing his shot.

And oh, God, it was cheap whiskey—the _cheapest_ whiskey. Bucky nearly gagged, swallowing a couple of times to keep it down. Didn’t stop him for reaching for his second shot, though, taking that one just as quickly as the first, then kissing Steve and Peggy’s cheeks in turn.

“Christ, that _burns_ ,” Peggy said, tears in her eyes as she shoved the envelope and present at him. “Go on, darling.”

Bucky grinned, reaching for the card and ripping it open to discover a truly disgusting spectacle of bright pink flowers accompanying raised gold, glittery script.

“Ew,” he said, beginning to read. “To my beloved on his birthday—aw, that’s nice.”

“Appropriate,” Steve agreed.

“Okay, okay,” he said, opening the card and finding more pink-printed words and glitter within. “Happy birthday to my dearest love. You lift me higher each day, my angel. You are the other half of my soul.”

“Oh wow,” Peggy said, glancing at Steve. “I forgot how gross it was.”

“I mean, go big or go home.”

“You _guys_ ,” Bucky said. “This is…I mean, this is the best one yet.”

“Took us thirty minutes at Duane Reade to find it,” Steve said proudly. “It was hidden behind a bunch of others, and it only cost a buck seventy-five.”

“I’m putting it on the fridge,” Bucky proclaimed. “You cheap motherfuckers.”

“Open your present!” Peggy insisted.

"I mean, how could you top the card?" he grinned, reaching for the box, which bore his name along with the phrase 'we love you as much as you will hate this' scrawled in Peggy's messy handwriting. "Uh, gee, thanks?"

“You’re welcome,” Steve said, pretty much vibrating with excitement, which wasn’t suspicious at all.

Bucky narrowed his eyes and tore into the paper, only to be struck dumb by the sight of metallic lettering that read _StarkPhone_. “Oh, fuck no.”

“Now you can be insufferable like we are!” Steve crowed, brandishing his own stupid phone like a weapon. Because employment at Rebirth came with certain perks, including cutting-edge phones, thanks to a partnership with Stark Industries, as well as a family discount on plans. Peggy and Steve had been after him for months to upgrade his old Nokia, which he’d staunchly refused to do on principle, because, like, his phone was _fine_ , thanks. He could still play snake on it, and he didn’t need some bullshit fancy touch screen.

“You _assholes_ …”

“Look at him!” Peggy said, pointing. “Look, Steve! He’s staring the gift horse in the mouth, right this second!”

“Amazing,” Steve said like it was a nature documentary and he was David Attenborough. “You can see his head shoving itself right up his—”

“Quit being dicks to me on my birthday!” he protested weakly, succumbing to their influence while using his fingernail to break through the plastic that was sealing the box shut.

“Aw, darling,” Peggy said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Life’s tough, hmm?”

“It really is,” he sighed, tearing off the rest of the plastic so he could play with his new toy. “I dunno why I even keep you guys around, when you’re so fuckin’ mean to me.”

“Like you could do better,” Steve said. “We’re great.”

Bucky grinned. “You’re alright. Hey, I’m out of drinks.”

“We’re all out of drinks,” Peggy agreed. “Steve—”

“I’m not…I went last time!”

“Steeeeee-eeeeve,” Bucky wheedled.

“God damn it,” he protested, though he was already halfway out of the booth, the power of twin pouts compelling him.

 

* * *

 

Steve was…Steve was lucky. So lucky. Because, like, of all the people in the whole wide world, _he_ was the only one who got to have Bucky and Peggy, and four shots of whiskey, and two beers, and also a lot, a lot, a _lot_ of the awesome peanuts the bar had been giving out for _free_. They let him take the bowl right off the counter, even! And sure, the peanuts tasted like the floor, but also they tasted like sunshine, and he had eaten twenty, maybe thirty? Couldn't remember. Peggy kept insisting she wasn't ever going to kiss him again, but that was bullshit because Peggy kissed him all the time.

Only now, he didn’t have any more peanuts because the bar was closed. The three of them had closed _with_ the bar, stumbling outside and down to the subway and like…it was really late? Late enough that it wasn't Bucky's birthday anymore, but that was okay because it should always be Bucky's birthday.

Bucky's birthday. Bucky was old, and Bucky was happy…happy birthday, Bucky!…and soon Peggy would be old and then Steve would be old. Older than legends who died young and older than, older than—

"Steve!" Peggy called from kind of far away because he had been wandering down the platform. "What are you _doing_?”

"S…" he pointed to the tracks. "That's  …there's a rat!"

"What a fuckin'—" Bucky started, tottering toward him, swaying in his shoes. "I don't …you liar, where's the…I don't see it."

“S’right there!” he protested, pointing again and slumping against Bucky’s side, giggling a little. “Hi, Buck.”

"You're  …you're so drunk, Stevie."

“ _You’re_ so drunk.”

“You’re _both_ so drunk,” Peggy said in the imperious way she had when _she_ was the most drunk, on account of being the smallest.

“The train,” Bucky said, forgetting about the rat as he reached for her hand. “Is never coming.”

“No,” Steve said. “We’re out late. The train is like…on its own track.” That sounded pretty smart, he thought. Philosophical.

“Nah, dummy,” Bucky said, leaning over to bite the tip of his nose, which didn’t even hurt. “Train’s on a _train track_.”

“I meant, like, metaphorical?” Steve mumbled, just as he caught sight of the first hint of light in the tunnel. “Oh, look!”

“Train!” Peggy exclaimed.

“You’re both so smart,” Bucky said. It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

The train smelled like shit, and there was an old hot dog on one of the seats, which had, like, one bite taken out of it, so it looked really sad, sitting there. Except Peggy didn't think it was sad—she thought it was funny. So funny that she couldn't stop giggling for the entire three stops it took them to get home. Giggled right onto the sidewalk, in fact, where she looped one arm around Bucky's waist so she could lean on his right side while Steve leaned on his left.

“You’re weird, Maggie,” Bucky mumbled, pressing a kiss into her hair as she caught her breath, the gesture making Steve wish Bucky would give _him_ a kiss. But then Bucky did, so that was alright.

Everything was alright.

The bodega near the apartment beckoned, so they stopped in, stumbling around the narrow aisles to stock up on Gatorade and snacks and other things they could eat in bed when they woke up hungover, and none of them wanted to make real food.

“It’s my birthday,” Bucky informed Sal, who always worked late nights. Steve liked Sal. Sal’s family had owned the bodega since Steve was a kid, and it was, like, the best bodega in Brooklyn, he was pretty sure. Because it stayed open really late, which was very important.

“Happy birthday,” Sal said.

“Thanks, man,” Bucky replied, and oh no, Bucky was getting teary, because sometimes Bucky got emotional in the wee hours of the morning when he was really drunk.

Steve stepped in before he started crying in front of Sal. “He’s _thirty_.”

“Good for him,” said Sal.

“I’m just…I love this store,” Bucky went on. “You’re always here, and like, you’ve always _been_ here, you know?”

“Sure, man,” Sal agreed.

“I just, I’m so glad you’re _here_.” Now Bucky really was crying, so Steve took him by the hand and led him out, while Peggy laid an extra five dollar bill on the counter as a please-don’t-mind-him peace offering.

When they reached their building, it took Steve three tries to unlock the front door. Then, they stumbled over one another in fits of shushes and admonishments to be _quiet_ while mounting the stairs. Upon entering the apartment, they went their separate ways. Bucky marched to the kitchen to put away the drinks and (probably) to eat leftover noodles. Peggy, meanwhile, headed for the bathroom, because she had a bladder the size of a very small snail.

Steve only had eyes for the bedroom, though. Bedroom eyes. Ha! He stripped off his clothes once he got there, kicking them into a corner before falling face-first onto the mattress and worming his way beneath the comforter.

It wasn't long before Peggy joined him, so Steve rolled over to watch her undress because it was a thing to do. She'd left her skirt and tights in the bathroom, so she only had to divest herself of her shirt and bra before she crawled in next to him, wearing nothing but her underwear. Steve snaked his arms around her, rolling them over so he could kiss the beer from her tongue. Probably wasn't gonna escalate into anything sexy—too drunk for that—but kissing was good, and he liked it, so he pushed her arms above her head and pinned her down so he could start sucking a bruise into the skin of her neck while she gave these awesome, breathy little moans.

"I got water," Bucky said from somewhere over his shoulder, though neither Steve nor Peggy was about to stop what they were doing to acknowledge him. Steve vaguely clocked the sound of Bucky undressing, though, as well as the sound of the prosthetic being connected to its charger—the whir of the gears and the soft 'ping' indicating it would live another day—but he didn't move until Bucky's heavy weight settled next to them. Lifting his head from Peggy's neck, Steve turned to kiss Bucky instead, right hand straying to Peggy's breast, touching her in the way he knew she liked, now that he knew her well.

“Happy birthday, Buck,” he murmured when Bucky pulled away, a hazy smile on his face.

“Best birthday yet,” he said. They shifted positions, Bucky settling with his head on the pillow, while Steve moved to lay at Peggy’s other side, the two of them like a set of brackets, keeping her between them.

Bucky nuzzled his face against her temple, words muffled against her skin. “D’you mean it about rubbing my back when I puke, Maggie?”

“Mmm,” she nodded, turning her head and catching him in a quick kiss. “S’long as you hold my hair back when I do.”

“That’s a deal,” Bucky slurred, one hand falling to her stomach. “Night, kids.”

Steve and Peggy mumbled their agreements, and it wasn't long before they were fast asleep.

Same old, same old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my friends, is officially it! Thank you to everyone who has been reading along, and hello to anyone this story has picked up now that it's through. I am so appreciative of every kudos and comment it gets, as is Lena when those kudos and comments pertain to the art.
> 
> Speaking of the art! And other such things! This piece was done for the story after it was written, and I can't quite get over how gorgeous it is, how happy they are, and how talented [ellebeesknees/Lena](https://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com) continually proves herself to be. Please give it a [reblog on Tumblr](https://ellebeesknees.tumblr.com/post/185570509977/lenadraws-for-sunbeams-are-never-made-like-me-by) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/umetnica/status/1139267069508313092) if you can. Also, if you enjoyed the story and want to share it with others, please also consider reblogging the [masterpost](https://notlucy.tumblr.com/post/185570538352/sunbeams-are-never-made-like-me-words-by-notlucy), or [RTing](https://twitter.com/notlucysays/status/1139266690687131648). 
> 
> I seriously couldn't have asked for a better RBB experience, and I'm once again so, so grateful.


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